


As We Seek, So Shall We Find

by spectaculacularsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'no morning breath allowed' seems to be a steady theme, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Guilty Sam, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Leviathans, Light Nipple Play, Light Spanking, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Nipple Licking, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Sam's a little bossy when he's naked but we all knew that, Sexual Content, Smut, Snuggling, The Eventual Smut is Upon Us, a few Star Wars references, a little bit of Dom!Sam peaks out - just a little, bff Sam, cranky reader, dean's a good little nurse maid/housekeeper, explicit rating for future chapters, gross motel rooms, hunter reader, hurt reader, motel fluff, oh god the angst, one slightly forced orgasm - maybe more like 'highly encouraged', public oral sex, sam's a big tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectaculacularsammy/pseuds/spectaculacularsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re a hunter, partnered up with The Winchesters. </p><p>For months, the relationship that you and Sam have is simple and undefined, until it’s…pleasantly not. Just as the two of you start to explore the newness of each other, a hunt comes up, and <i>everything</i> changes. </p><p>(Title and chapter titles borrowed from the lyrics of <i>Run-Around</i>, by Blues Traveler.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But I Want More Than a Touch, I Want You to Reach Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChloeMac86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeMac86/gifts).



> This fic takes place sometime in Season 7, which means, Leviathans. Sam’s ‘wall’ isn’t an issue, and though he’s a minor character with no actual dialogue in this fic, Bobby’s still alive and kicking, feisty and sassy as ever. 
> 
> Also, this fic was a request from Clare. A few weeks ago, it was her birthday, and for self-comfort, she asked me for a ‘smutty Sam fic, of my choosing’. 
> 
> Clare, I’m sorry you were having a rough time, but I hope things are better. This is going to be a little angsty for a while, but I promise you, you’ll get what you asked for. ;)
> 
> As always, thank you, lady_ataralasse for going over this with me. You're fab.

**Wednesday night:**

Fast asleep, you wake up just enough to feel yourself eased over to the other side of the motel bed you share with Sam. The sheets are cold compared to the warm spot you’ve just barely managed to create in the middle of the mattress, and you whine.

A quiet and gentle, “ _Shhhh_ ,” can be heard after the bed shifts, and you’re wrapped tightly in a warmth that you know is Sam. With a sleepy smile, you snuggle back into him, content.

It’s completely normal for you and Sam to do this, and it’s been going on for months. You’ve always assumed that Sam just needed the physical contact. It’s no different for you; you need it too. It’s comfortable. It’s always warm. It’s safe. It’s Sam. _Sam._

As you have the thought, Sam gives you a light nuzzle to the back of your hair, and you drift back to sleep, feeling his arms wrapped around you.

**Thursday morning:**

Sam wakes up with his face smashed into his pillow. He can feel your warm skin touching his back and your soft breathing on his bare skin. He smiles.

It’s still dark, but in the bed to his left, Sam sees the outline of Dean, sprawled out, occupying every inch of his _own_ queen-sized bed. Dean’s gotten his own bed for months, but Sam’s always been content to share one with you. It started out as a necessity, because neither of you wanted to sleep on the gross motel carpet, but then sharing a bed became habit, never questioned. After that, it was something Sam looked forward to. It took him a long time to admit it to himself, but he actually _likes_ sharing a bed with you. 

Dean figured out the situation _long_ before Sam did. He keeps giving Sam shit, telling him to make a move, but Sam kind of likes things the way they are. He’s sure that’s completely _guyish_ of himself, but there’s always been this worry in the back of Sam’s head that if he messes with the simplicity of what you and he have, he’ll wreck it. That’s _not_ what Sam wants, so he leaves alone as best as he can and just finds comfort in whatever it is that the two of you have.

Sam likes that he’s got someone to talk to about anything he wants to, whenever he wants, and someone to just sit and be quiet with him. He also likes that you feel comfortable enough with him to do all those things too. Also, you never complain about his love for The History Channel and always watch it with him. He also likes how you sit next to him with your book and let him read over your shoulder. If you finish your page before him, you wait; Sam likes that too. You also do this thing in the Impala where if Sam’s got his flashlight tucked between his chin and shoulder, trying to read a map, or an obscure piece of lore, you sit forward in the backseat and hold the flashlight for him.

It’s the little things. It’s the companionship, the softer and gentler side of things that Sam’s always craved, but hasn’t had in a very long time. _Maybe_ it’s a little more to Sam. Maybe.

Since it’s still dark in the motel room, Sam guesses it’s about 6 AM. He can tell by his brother’s slow and deep breathing that Dean’s still fast asleep, and your breath is the same, except it’s soft and warm against the bare skin on the middle of Sam’s back.

Very slowly, he rolls over, so he’s facing you. As soon as he does, he sees you react to the light shuffle on the bed and start to roll over.

Before Sam can think, his hand is on your forearm, gently stopping you, and he just barely whispers, “Stay.”

For a second, Sam sees that you don’t move. You lay there, completely asleep, half-way between staying next to him and rolling away. Sam holds his breath. Waits.

_If she rolls away, I’ll get up and go for a run. No big deal. If she comes back, I’ll just stay right here. No. Big. Deal._

To Sam’s surprise, you roll back toward him. He takes you in his arms, closes his eyes, and welcomes your touch, along with the extra half-hour or so of sleep.

-

It’s still quiet, but the room is no longer dark when Sam wakes up again. Before he has to get out of bed, start his day, and look at the papers and the obits, Sam savors the moment and looks down at you, still wrapped in his arms. To his shock, you’re already looking at him.

“Hey,” you smile up at him.

“Hey,” Sam answers you with the same smile, and for the first time, he really notices how soft your hair is on the inside of his upper arm. He just _has_ to touch it and reaches to push a lock of hair away from your face. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Mmm hmmm.” You turn your head and yawn into the pillow – you’re comfortable with Sam, but not so comfortable that you’ll yawn your morning breath in his face. “You came to bed late. Where were you guys?”

“At a bar in the next town over. Dean and me hustled a game of pool and made a couple hundred bucks. I left you a voicemail on your phone to let you know, but you must have been asleep.”

“I crashed after supper. I was exhausted after that last hunt, and I didn’t wake up until about a half an hour ago.”

Craning his neck around, so he can look at the alarm clock on the end table, Sam sees two things: it’s after 7 AM – he _never_ sleeps this late – and Dean’s gone.

“Where’d Dean go?”

“Said he had to meet Bobby, and that he’d be back this afternoon. Leviathan stuff. Said he’d call and told me to tell you to…” You clear your throat, put on your best Dean-face, and drop your voice as low as it’ll go, “‘Stop bein’ a bitch, Sammy. Just do it’.”

For a second, Sam freezes, shocked at Dean for giving _you_ “the message”. Then, after really looking at your face, he realizes you really have no idea what Dean’s message meant, and Sam lets himself laugh at your best impression of his brother. “That’s pretty good.”

“Thanks.” You smirk up at Sam, wanting to ask him to tell you what Dean meant, but it could literally be _anything_. With the Winchesters, you never know. “So, the mysterious message has been delivered?”

A fraction of a moment passes, and in that time Sam thinks, _How bad would it really be if she **did** know what Dean meant? _ Just like always, his brain runs through dozens of different scenarios, playing through all sorts of actions and consequences, and it only takes a second for Sam to talk himself out of it. _It could be bad. **This** could all go away. No. That **can’t**_ _happen_ **.** Sam pulls you just a little bit closer to him. “It’s been delivered.”

“Good.” You grin up at Sam and wiggle in his arms until he lets you go. “Now, I’m going to go brush my teeth. Don’t move. We have the TV all to ourselves, and we’re going to watch the _King Arthur: Fact or_ _Fable_ marathon on The History Channel.” You point at Sam with a pretend-serious face. “Don’t. Move.”

Innocently holding his hands up, Sam promises around a smile, “Not a muscle.”

However, as soon as the bathroom door closes behind you, Sam yanks his jeans up over his pajama pants, throws his jacket over his bare shoulders, and hauls ass outside. Usually he _hates_ motels that are out in the middle of nowhere, woods all around them, but this time he’s beyond thankful. After finding a private tree that makes a _great_ substitute for a bathroom, Sam runs back inside the room, whips off his jeans and jacket, and grabs his bag on the way back to bed. Just after he swishes around a quick glug of mouthwash, the toilet in the _actual_ bathroom flushes, and Sam spits his mouthful of Scope into one of Dean’s empty beer bottles.

Sam knows his brother would be _dying_ of laughter right now, if he could see… _whatever_ Sam just did.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Sam grabs the remote and turns on the TV. Static. He tries another channel. Static.

“Outlook not so good, huh?” You ask as you climb back into bed with your back against the headboard, next to Sam.

“Seems that way.” Sam tries all the channels and each one is just as static-filled at the one before it. _This_ is why Sam doesn’t like motels out in the middle of nowhere: nothing works. “Sorry about that, but…” He reaches down and grabs his iPad out of his bag. “We can watch something on here if you want?”

After propping the iPad up on his lap with a pillow, Sam holds his arm out, so you can lean against him… _and_ see the screen better. Once you do, without asking, Sam picks your favorite movie. However, the second that he does, a little message pops up, saying Sam’s account has an error.

He sighs. “Card must be maxed.”

You shrug. “It’s okay.”

The backlight of the iPad shuts off, and neither you, nor Sam, move.

A minute of silence passes, and Sam asks, “You wanna get some breakfast?”

You shake your head, completely content where you are, and Sam seems like he is too.

It’s the way the ends of Sam’s hair tickle your forehead as he leans down to look at you and the warmth of his bare shoulder and chest as he holds you close. It’s the way the sheets wrapped around you and Sam smell the same way they always smell, regardless of the motel: musky like Sam, with faint traces of sleep and sweat, mixed with you. It’s comforting. Sam always seems to seek _this_ out, and if for some reason he doesn’t, you do.

It’s never been questioned, never been talked about, but for some reason – for the _first_ time – you _have_ to know: why?

There have been times when you thought it was completely obvious how Sam felt for you – the way you felt for him – but there’ve also been times where you made yourself just let things be. _Why do they have to change? Sam’s there when I need him, **always**. What if I question everything and make it awkward? But…what if I question everything, and it gets **better**?_

Memories of all the good parts of relationships past flicker in your mind, and you remember how _much_ better it can really get. Sam’s not a jerk, and unless he’s working the long con of the century, he’s not snuggling with you at night to get in your pants; he does it because he likes it.

After repeating your logic again in your head, you finally say something, “Sam?”

The second you say his name, Sam actually _feels_ the mood change. He takes a breath, knows what’s coming. “Hmmm?”

“Why do we…do _this_?”

Your question is vague, but Sam knows _exactly_ what you’re asking. Not having anything but vague words of his own, he gently pulls you closer to him and buries his nose just under your ear and in your hair. “This?”

After a minute of closeness, you look up at Sam and gaze into his hazel eyes. “Yeah. I know we’ve never talked about it before, but it’s… _nice_. Right?”

Sam can hear the uncertainty in your voice, and for the first time, he feels like the two of you are on the same page: questioning everything, worried that talking about whatever it is that the two of you have could make it all go away. Wanting to ease your uncertainty and to let you know he feels the same way, Sam brings his hand up to your face and runs his thumb over your jaw. “It is.”

When your eyes stay locked onto his, searching his eyes for answers, Sam can’t think of a better answer to give you than to lean forward and kiss you. His lips move with yours, just soft and slow, both learning the way each other feels and tastes. It’s more than _nice_. Kissing Sam feels both brand new and familiar at the same time. It’s comfortable and warm, but exciting and unknown.

Feeling the same things, Sam shifts on the bed, gently threading his fingers through your hair, in a way he’s done dozens of times before, but _never_ like _this_. Following Sam, you wrap your arms around his neck, and this contented, little _hum_ comes out of some one’s mouth, just as Sam’s tongue sweeps along yours. It comes out again and again, as Sam pulls you closer to him, and as you pull him closer to you. Eventually, you end up in Sam’s lap, and the little _hum_ turns into something _much_ deeper. The second that it does, the _second_ that Sam’s hands find their way up under your sleep shirt, just rubbing at the small of your back, his phone vibrates on the end table.

Both you and Sam know it could be Dean with some important info on the Leviathans, so the kiss ends. You and Sam reluctantly pull away at the same time, but never really getting any further apart.

Hoping that the text message is just Dean saying he wants burgers instead of pizza for supper, Sam keeps you close to him as he reaches for his phone. The second he sees the message, he loses his false hope. “Dean’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Sam sighs. “Bobby’s got a location on a handful of Leviathans.”

You sigh too. The job comes first. “Okay. I’ll get my stuff packed up.”

Sam doesn’t want the moment end _this way_ , and he knows you don’t either. He holds you close for another minute, carding his fingers through your hair, memorizing how your face looks: the slight redness in your cheeks and lips and how you’re looking at him in a way he never knew he _needed._

“You wanna go for a drive after we get back?” He asks around a soft kiss, committing to memory how soft your lips are against his. “Finish what we were talking about?”

A soft laugh comes out of your mouth, because it’s not like you and Sam were just having a _real_ conversation. Feeling your lips burn from Sam’s kisses, having his taste on your tongue, and his scent deep in your lungs, you look up at him. “A drive sounds perfect.”

For the first time, Sam is confident that you and he are on the same page. Even though there was no real conversation to be had, Sam can tell by your kisses, the way you touched him, and how you’re looking at him right now, that this isn’t going to be awkward. It’s not going to get weird, or change anything, except make it better. Wishing the two of you would have found this place months ago, Sam grins and gives you another soft kiss.

“When we get back, you and me, we’ll go on that drive.”

Eighteen minutes later, Dean is parked in the motel parking lot in the Impala, and Bobby is parked right behind him in his ’71 Chevelle.

-

Even with Dean Winchester at the helm, the hunt for the Leviathans doesn’t go as planned.

Once at the building where the Leviathans are suspected to be, true to Dean’s plan, Bobby and Dean go right, while you and Sam go left, the four of you packing Borax and machetes.

Side-by-side or back-to-back, you and Sam stay close, as the two of you check high and low, looking for anything in the vast shadows of the abandoned building. When the first room is deemed clear, the two of you continue on to the next, until only one is left.

In the very last room of the building, Sam hears a sound come from his left. He barely turns toward the sound – away from you – for two seconds. Before he can turn back around, Sam hears you yelp and sees you go sailing across the room, crashing into a cement wall. Over the sound of your machete clanging loudly on the floor, Sam distinctly hears the sound of your bones cracking, a millisecond before Bobby and Dean come sprinting into the room.

There’s just a handful of the Leviathans, but Bobby and Dean soak them in all the Borax they have and hack off their heads, buying Sam enough time to carefully gather up your unconscious body from the floor.

Dean, however, takes his time with the last Leviathan: it’s the one that kicked you across the room and into the wall. Too far away to have actually done anything, Dean was forced to just watch it happen, and he’s raging mad. A little bit for him, a little bit for Sam, but very much for you, Dean scoops up your bottle of Borax from the floor and forces its contents down the bastard’s throat, while Bobby holds it still, its meatsuit’s arms yanked painfully behind its back. It’s not until the Leviathan’s head bounces along the floor that everyone packs it up and leaves.

Much to Sam’s dismay, it’s quickly decided that since the Leviathans can take on the appearance of anyone, you can’t be brought to a hospital. Of course, Sam argues. He yells at Dean, firm in his opinion that you _need_ a doctor, and that they can find one in the podunk town, soak the doctor in Borax, and have them fix you.

As Sam tries to convince Dean, you’re unconscious in Sam’s arms, and blood is gushing from a deep wound on your forehead. Holding a torn scrap of his plaid shirt to the wound, Sam tries to hold you tightly to him, tries not the let the bumpy roads jostle your ribs that he knows are cracked, or your foot that is hanging at an awkward angle, but Dean doesn’t relent. He says they can’t take the risk. The plan is that once the four of you get to the motel room, they’ll patch you up as best as they can, and just as Sam opens his mouth to argue that that’s not good enough, that there’s no way even _they_ can patch up wounds as bad as yours, Bobby adds that he’ll call in a hunter friend with medical training. Finally, Sam agrees, but it’s not without four dozen of his best bitch faces.

Once Bobby’s hunter friend shows up at the motel room, Sam douses him with extra Borax, just to be safe.

It turns out you have a concussion, a broken foot, a sprained wrist and knee, ‘one hell of a shiner’ – Dean’s words, not yours – a couple cracked ribs, and nasty gash on your forehead, not to mention more scrapes and bruises than anyone has the stomach to actually tally up. Bobby’s hunter friend, who _wisely_ works around an over-protective Sam, stitches up your face, tightly wraps your knee, puts a clunky, white cast on your foot and lower leg, and tells everyone it _has_ to stay on for 4-6 weeks. _Absolutely NO hunting._

You’re too out of it and too doped up on painkillers to complain, but when everyone _finally_ allows you to go to sleep, the last thing you see as you close your eyes, is Sam. You don’t understand the look on his face. It’s the one buried under exhaustion, mass amounts of anxiety, and a small touch of fear – it looks like guilt.

The drive Sam suggested the two of you go on after the hunt, doesn’t happen.


	2. The Banner May Be Torn, and the Wind's Gotten Colder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For months, you & Sam shared a bed on hunts. In spite of the cuddling, there was never a label for what you & Sam had; it was simple, just the two of enjoying the companionship & closeness that hunters often times lack. Then, that all changed, because you just _had to know_ : was it the same for Sam?
> 
> Of course it was & Sam took you in his arms & kissed you. However, before anything really started, everything was cut short when a hunt for Leviathans demanded both you & Sam. 
> 
> Really wanting to continue the moment – and maybe talk about things – Sam offered to take you on a drive after the hunt. Wanting those things too, you agreed, but the Leviathan hunt didn’t go as planned. Before Sam, Dean, or Bobby could get to you, a Leviathan kicked you across the room, & your body crashed into a cement wall. You cracked a few of ribs, broke your foot, & got a few other injuries. Needless to say, the drive with Sam didn’t happen. 
> 
> Bobby’s hunter/doctor friend told everyone that your cast had to stay on for 4-6 weeks, NO hunting, but you were too doped up to pay attention. The only thing you noticed was the guilt & fear-laced look on Sam’s face just as you fell asleep.

**Recovery. Week One:**

In the beginning, every time you wake up, the pain is horrible, and everything is a blur. Too out of it to recognize anything _but_ the pain, you only accept the pain pills and small glasses of water, unable to concentrate on anything more. It only takes a few minutes for everything to go fuzzy around the edges, and then you’re warm. A faint musky-scent fills your nostrils as the pain dulls, and you fall back to sleep.

In and out of consciousness, you’re unaware of how much time passes, but one night you wake up in excruciating pain. Gripping onto rough sheets, trying not to writhe because it makes everything hurt worse, you’re vaguely aware that you’re sobbing, feeling your eyes burn from tears, and that constant musky-warmth is trying to soothe you. Eventually, the pain goes away, your grip loosens on the sheets, but from then on, you’re always cold.

-

Hushed yelling.

A door slams.

You’re awake.

_Pain._

“C’mon, ____.” As carefully as possible, Dean tries to lift your head up from your pillow. “You gotta sit up for me, just a little bit.”

_Dean. No. Hurts. Don’t._

After slipping an oval-shaped, white pill into your mouth, Dean holds a cup of water with a straw up to your lips. “Time for your pain pills, and you gotta drink some water for me.”

 _Water. Thirsty._ You drink, and the cool water feels _amazing_ going down your raw throat. _More._ You cough, and it makes everything hurt. _No._ _Too much._

Giving you a little breather, Dean takes the cup away and wipes the water dribbles away from your chin. After you stop coughing, he gives it back and gently tells you, “Slow sips.”

Feeling a droplet of water that Dean missed, run down your neck, you shiver. You’re too exhausted and in too much pain to wipe it away, but you manage to slur, “M’cold.”

“It’s the pain meds,” Dean offers softly, while dabbing at your lips and brow with a soft cloth. “I’ll get ya another blanket.”

Trying to get your vision to focus, you blink and look around the room as much as you can without moving your head. “Sam?”

Looking at the motel door, Dean clenches his jaw and muffles a sigh, but forces his voice to sound as soft as he can get it. “He’s out gettin’ some coffee. He’ll be back soon.”

 _Sam. Back soon. Tired. Hurts. Cold. Sam._ Everything hurts, and you start to cry. “Dean…”

“Shhh.” He carefully pats your hand and wipes the tears from your eyes. “It’s all right.”

 _Dean._ “Hurts.”

“I know. The pain pills’ll kick in a minute. Try to go back to sleep.”

_Sleep. Cold. Need Sam._

Dean stays sitting next to you on your bed until you fall back to sleep, randomly throwing harsh looks at the door when it doesn’t open, and Sam doesn’t walk back inside.

Taking his attention away from the door and putting it back on you, grimacing in your sleep and a little sweaty from all the pain, Dean sighs. You were doing so well, at first: sleeping comfortably and taking your pain pills when Sam gave them to you, but then something happened a few nights ago, while Dean was gone.

Having to hustle a few more games of pool to pay for your pain meds, Dean came back from the bar to find Sam curled up on the tiny couch in the corner of the motel room. Of course, Dean thought it was odd, since Sam _always_ slept with you, but Dean let it go, assuming Sam needed to actually sleep, instead of half-sleeping and half-watching you sleep. But the next night, Sam slept on the couch too. And the night after that, and the night after that, continuing through the whole week.

When it came time to give you your pain meds and change the dressings on your forehead and other wounds, Sam made himself scarce.

The first day, once again, Dean let it go, thinking that Sam needed a minute to walk off the stress, anxiety, and the dregs of fear that you weren’t going to be okay. Even though the gash on your forehead was healing the way it should be – no signs of infection – both Sam and Dean both worried that something could go wrong. Thankfully, a week later, you’re still infection free.

Dean’s known since the very first week you and Sam shared a bed that there was more going on. He watched how you and Sam were together: bonding over the same things, always finding a way to bump shoulders – well, bump elbow to shoulder, since Sam _is_ freakishly tall, in Dean’s opinion – and Dean’s woken up more than a handful of times to see you wrapped tightly in Sam’s arms, the both of you fast asleep.

However, since the hunt with the Leviathans, Dean’s actually been watching Sam pull away from you. Dean can see the guilt written all over Sam’s face, and though Sam refuses to talk about it, Dean already knows and flat out told Sam that he’s full of shit.

Sure, Dean’s got that irrational guilt inside of him for not getting to you quick enough, and even though it doesn’t make sense, part of Dean wishes he wouldn’t have split everyone up into those two groups. Which is stupid, because that’s the most efficient way to clear a building, but that’s just how Dean is: he carries his guilt heavy around his neck, regardless of whether or not he really is the one to blame.  

The thing is, that’s how Sam is too.

**Recovery. Week Two:**

For the most part, your face has stopped throbbing, but your body aches. You’re able to think in complete sentences, but you still sleep most of the day and night.

Dean wraps your leg in a garbage bag and tapes it with three-quarters of a roll of duct tape, so you can bathe. Sam’s gone again, off getting food or talking to Bobby – you can’t remember which – so Dean helps you hobble your way into the bathroom.

“Shower or bath?” Dean asks after plopping you down on the lid of the toilet.

It’s clear that Dean is probably the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his life, so to speed up the process and conversation, you quickly eye the shower, looking for something you can hold onto. The curtain rod looks like it’s seen better days and can hardly hold the weight of the thin-looking shower curtain – that’s a no, and other than that, there’s not much else to support you. You sigh. “Bath, I guess.”

Dean eyes the ring around the tub and raises an eyebrow. With his lips curled in disgust, he asks, “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll just prop my leg up on the side. It’ll be fine.”

“Gonna catch somethin’,” Dean mumbles as he stomps out of the bathroom, but then comes right back with a jug of Borax in his hand. “Don’t get used to this.”

Grabbing a threadbare washcloth from the rusty rack on the wall, Dean dumps some Borax in the tub. He groans something that sounds a lot like, “Son a of bitch,” and starts to scrub at the dingy-looking ring in the old porcelain tub.

“I think you might have found your second calling,” you tease and only laugh a little bit because it hurts your cracked ribs and your mouth is still a little sore.

“Yeah, yeah…”

“I think there was a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the lobby. Instead of hustling pool, you could do housekeeping.”

“I do _not_ fluff pillows, and you weren’t even _in_ the lobby when we checked in.” Dean grunts as he stands up from the floor and chucks the once-mostly-white washcloth under the sink. “By the way, you friggin’ _owe_ me. All my hard-earned cash goes to your ‘happy pills,’ ya big faker.” He grins at you and winks, clearly joking.

Still, you cross your arms – as best you can – over your chest. “M’not faking.”

“I know you’re not,” Dean tells you as he turns on the shower and rinses the dingy soap bubbles down the drain. “I just gotta give you shit. You’ve been sleepin’ for a week straight, and I got pent up shit to give.”

You snort. “You can take something for that…prune juice.”

Dean twists the shower head, so the spray soaks your face and shirt.

After spitting out a mouthful of water, you wipe your eyes and grumble, “I hate you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean gives you another grin, this one toothier than the last. “I know.” Then, there’s a half-moment of silence where Dean’s grin slowly fades, and he asks, “So…you can…uh…take it from here, right? I don’t gotta….” Dean’s hands make this strange, little flail in the air, kind of like the motion of taking ones clothes off, but kind of not.

You laugh at him and playfully give him a push. “Will you get out of here? I’m perfectly capable of doing _this_ on my own.”

After drying his hands on the _last_ clean towel, Dean walks out of the bathroom, muttering, “Thank fucking God.”

It takes a little bit of finagling to get your clothes off and get yourself into the tub, but you’re _not_ asking Dean for help. Once the tub starts to fill up with surprisingly hot water, you lean back against the wall – with your garbage bag-wrapped leg up on the side of the tub – and relax.

It’s been a week since you’ve taken a bath, and though you’re trying not to think of the phrase, ‘Stewing in your own filth,’ the hot water is almost too nice to ignore. So, you drape a washcloth over your eyes, let out a heavy breath, and feel yourself start to drift to sleep.  

After what seems like seconds later, you jump when there’s a loud bang on the door.

“You’ve been in there for a half an hour,” Dean’s voice yells to you. “You aren’t dead, are you?”

“M’fine,” you grumble, ripping your washcloth off your eyes. “I’ll be out in a…” Considering your present situation, you remember how difficult it was to get _in_ the tub, and decide it’s probably going to be ten times more difficult to get _out_. “I’ll be out when I friggin’ get out! God! Who are you, the bath police?”

There’s a thunk on the door. “Shaddup.”

You roll your eyes and grab for the shampoo, rubbing a palm full into your hair. Using a questionably-clean cup from the back of the toilet, you rinse your hair and hear Sam and Dean arguing about something.

They’re fucking _ninjas_ when it comes to keeping their conversations unheard, so you only hear parts of it.

“… gave her a bath!?”

“God! No! Sam … wrong with you? … gross fucking bathtub … _not_ a housekeeper … all her … _not_ a part of _that_. Just … duct tape … garbage bag.”

“… she doing? … Okay?”

“Maybe if you … fucking here … gone all the time … you’d know!”

Still a little groggy from your pain meds, you don’t understand the fragments of the muffled conversation that you hear through the wall, but you _do_ understand that Sam is out there. Wanting to talk to him, you quickly try to heave yourself out of the tub without knocking your cast into the toilet or hurting your sprained wrist too much. However, it’s extremely painful when you shift your hips, and your ribs press into the side of the tub. Squeezing your eyes shut and clapping a hand over your mouth, you manage to muffle the pained cry, but a round a fresh round of hot tears spring free from your eyes.

For a second, it’s almost too much. Pain shoots up your arm when you shift weight onto your wrist, your breath catches tight from the pain on your ribs, and you plop back into the tub with a splash that soaks the floor.

You sigh and try to breathe through the pain. There’s just no dignified way to do this, so you knock on the wall. “Sam?”

“Sammy … Christ … go in there … asking for you …”

Whatever Sam says back to Dean is muffled, except for, “Gotta go.”

The door slams.

A minute later, Dean knocks on the door and calls your name in a defeated tone, “______? You need help?”

“Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath.

After yanking the plug out of the drain and watching the tub empty, you put one hand on the slimy soap ledge and one hand on the side of the tub. You whimper and grunt, your good foot sliding and slipping, making random squeaky, wet, squelching noises in the bottom corner of the tub. It’s a horrible sound, but you manage to lift yourself out of the tub, get your butt on the ledge, and put yourself into a sitting position.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asks through the door, trying not to laugh.

“Me, getting out of the tub,” you retort, trying to catch your breath.

“Sounded like --”

“Don’t you dare,” you warn over Dean mumbling something about the noise of your foot in the bottom of the tub sounding like ‘when Sam eats too many burritos’. It _totally_ did, but you still yell out, “It did _NOT_!”

“Fine.” Dean chuckles, knowing you heard him and that he’s right. “I’m just gonna put your crutches in the bathroom, so you can get out of there by yourself, okay?”

“Thanks,” you sigh, not wanting to use the crutches, but you know that you can’t sit on the side of the tub forever.

Just barely opening the door, Dean’s arm comes in with your crutches, and he leans them up against the wall, closing the door behind his arm. You grumble at the sight of them, but dry off and rip the duct tape and garbage bag off of your leg. Once you pull on some clean clothes, you hobble over to the sink to brush your teeth. By the time you clumsily stumble out of the bathroom – your crutches are _not_ cooperating – Dean’s sitting at the kitchenette table, drinking a beer.

When you finally get to the side of your bed, you practically fall over, exhausted, but before you lay down, you fish a pain pill out of the bottle and ask, “Where’d Sam go?”

“To go get food,” Dean lies and watches your face to see if you buy it. _Not_ exhausted and _not_ on pain meds, you probably wouldn’t, but for now, you seem to. “He’ll be back in a few. Told him to get you a burger. You should eat something with those horse pills.”

“Not hungry,” you mutter, wincing when you try to support your weight on your hands to shift up on you bed. Your one wrist is still really sore.

“Pain pills’ll do that, but you should try to eat something. Those things’ll also tear the shit out of your stomach.” Dean digs in one of the gear bags and pulls out a First Aid kit. Once he finds an ace bandage, he walks over to you and squats down. “Let me wrap up your wrist. Shoulda had something on it this whole time. It’s been buggin’ you for too long.”

Cranky, because the pain pills knock you out, but don’t allow you to sleep properly, you grumble while Dean wraps your wrist. He rolls his eyes at you and tells you to hold still. You do, and when he’s done, you groggily ask, “When’s Sam supposed to be back?”

“Soon,” Dean offers, not really knowing when Sam’ll be back or if he’ll really have food. He watches you try not to grimace as you lay yourself down on the bed. “Try to sleep some more. I’ll wake you up when he gets back. Okay?”

“No.” You shake your head, wincing because the pressure from the soft pillow makes your forehead and cheek throb. “Haven’t hardly seen him at all. Wanna be awake.”

Dean sees your eyes droop, then flutter closed, and he pulls the blanket up over your shoulders. “Okay,” he whispers quietly. “You just stay awake then. Sammy’ll be back soon.”

The last thing you remember is the itch in your cast and how your wet hair is making your whole body cold.

Later, when you wake up, it’s dark. Dean’s sprawled out in his own bed, and Sam’s still gone.

**Recovery. Week 3:**

Sam and Dean trade off on leaving for jobs.

Dean plays poker and cribbage with you and watches _Dr. Sexy_ while you sleep.

Sam sits on _your_ bed and watches TV with you, but doesn’t say much. He doesn’t touch you, and he doesn’t mention three weeks ago. You want to, but you don’t mention it either.

He still sleeps on the couch.

You’re freezing when you fall asleep that night.

**Recovery. Week 4:**

Dean gets a call from Bobby. Five minutes later, you and your crutches are put in the backseat by Dean, while Sam loads up all the bags. The motel is in the rear window two minutes after that.

Once the three of you get to the new motel room, Sam and Dean have to leave for a hunt. Trying to be kind, Bobby offers to stay and keep you company, but you’re not in the mood. You’ll probably sleep the whole time they’re gone, anyway.

The brothers are gone for two days. The exact moment you decide to try walking around without your crutches, is the exact moment Sam and Dean walk into the motel room.

Covered in black, Leviathan goo, Dean points his finger at you and barks, “Get your ass back into bed, Tiny Tim.” He crankily waits for you to hobble the five paces back to your bed, watches you like a hawk for any traces of a wince, and only when you sink back down on your bed, does Dean walk into the bathroom to shower.

Sam knows that the only reason Dean snapped at you is because Dean just got done snapping at _him_ in the car. Feeling like shit because you just got the tail-end of _their_ argument, for the first time in weeks, Sam helps you. After he takes off his jacket – which is also spattered with Leviathan goo – he gently props up your cast-covered foot with two pillows, then covers you with a blanket, and hands you the remote for the TV.

Sam knows you haven’t taken as many pain pills today: your eyes are clear, and he also notices the hurt way you’re trying not to look at him. Sam didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and because he can’t properly explain why he’s been acting the way he’s been acting, he keeps his silence. He knows you don’t understand; Dean doesn’t either, but Sam does. The guilt that’s eating away everything inside of him reminds him all the time.

Just like every other time you’ve been awake, Sam’s got this urge to be _somewhere else_ , but he forces himself to ask, “You want me to get you something to eat?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Sam looking at anything but you. You’re not really looking at him either, but you still can plainly see the shame in his eyes; you don’t understand anything.

“M’not hungry.” You lay back on your pillow and close your eyes. “Just tired. Cold.” After a couple seconds, you ask very softly, “Will you lay with me?”

Before Sam can answer, Dean pokes his head out from the bathroom. “I ordered pizza! _____, you’re eating!”

Scoffing in Dean’s general direction and at his new-found bitchy-ness, you push yourself back up and lean against the headboard with a huff. “I guess I’m eating pizza.”

Surprising the hell out of you, Sam sits down on your bed next to you. “Does your mouth still hurt? I could go get you soup?”

“No.” You sigh, feeling lonely even though Sam’s less than five inches away from you. “Hasn’t for a while.”

“That’s good,” Sam quietly offers.

Even though Sam’s not touching you, he’s still sitting right next to you, and you can feel his comforting warmth radiate onto your cold skin. Wanting nothing more than to feel _completely_ warm, you slide up next to Sam and just barely lean against his arm.

“Wanna watch TV with me?” In a way that you’ve done literally hundreds of times, you rest your head on Sam’s shoulder and turn your face to look up at him. “We can watch The History Channel?”

Doing this quick, little maneuver that Sam’s _never_ done before, his shoulder is out from under your cheek, and he stands up from your bed. After taking a couple steps backward, Sam touches a tiny patch of black goo on his jeans and looks down at it, avoiding your eyes and face. “I’m gross. I need a shower. Maybe later.”

“Okay,” you answer softly, and say nothing else for the rest of the night.

The TV stays quiet just like you, and after he showers and picks at his pizza, you watch Sam watch you out of the corner of his eye.

Just as you fall asleep, you have a non-pain-pill-addled-thought and realize what Sam’s doing. You don’t understand why, but he’s pulling away from you. Then, a new kind of pain comes about, and it’s much worse than the awkwardness that you feared might happen. The thing that you and Sam had, the thing that you didn’t even have a name for, is gone.

Sam sleeps on the couch again, and the next day he and Dean have to leave.

They’re gone for the rest of the week, leaving you cold, alone, hurt, and so confused.

-

**Recovery. Week 5, Thursday:**

You’ve been by yourself all damn week.

You’re lying down on your lumpy, lopsided motel bed with your white cast-covered foot propped up on a pillow.

Stupid, asshole Leviathans.

Because of those gross bastards, you’ve been left behind for the better part of five weeks, forced to endure the quiet motel room with the disgusting smell, _alone_. How the hell did you not notice the mystery stains on the carpet and that smell? Probably because this is the first week you’ve not been eating pain pills like candy. This is the first of five weeks you’ve not been in constant pain.

God, what _is_ that smell?

Trying to ignore the noxious odor, you watch the staticy TV, currently playing an ancient re-run of _Sally Jesse Raphael_ , who is sporting her classic, snazzy, red framed glasses. Earlier, you tried to watch TV on Sam’s iPad, but couldn’t get a solid wifi connection. Sam always gets a crazy-fast connection, but can you?

Hell, no.

_Sam._

A sigh falls out of your mouth as Sam crosses your mind.

Five weeks ago, you and Sam kissed. It was just short and sweet, quite possibly well on its way to something else, but was cut short when a hunt came up. Just a few short hours later, a Leviathan sent you on a _lovely_ trip into the unforgiving concrete of a wall, breaking your foot and giving you all sorts of _fun_ scrapes and bruises. You don’t remember a whole lot of what took place right after that, but what’s staring you right in the face is the sudden lack of Sam. He’s never around.

When Sam _is_ around, all you get are barely-there questions and these little half-answers that he’s never given you before, but has somehow gotten so good at. For the most part, he seems to avoid you: getting back to the motel _conveniently_ after you take a pain pill and fall asleep, or leaving in the morning for “food and coffee” before you wake up, not to mention those _lame_ excuses of ‘maybe later,’ or ‘when I get back.’

Is it just a coincidence that you got hurt, and Sam just suddenly decided to blow you off every chance he gets?

You want to say, ‘No friggin’ way’, because that’s _not_ Sam – _none_ of this ‘is Sam’ – but what are you supposed to think? Ever since you got hurt, Sam’s _literally_ been blowing you off every chance he gets. Coincidence or not, you have no idea why.

Are you a little cranky about the whole situation?

Hell, yes.

Honestly, you hate feeling cranky at Sam, but, really, what are you supposed to think? The two of you literally went from sleeping in the same bed every _single_ night, to practically _nothing_. Before, Sam always cuddled with you, made you feel safe, kept you warm, hell, had _conversations with you_ , looked at you, and then the two of you kissed. Then, the Leviathan broke your damn foot, bruised you up, and it was like everything… _whatever it was_ that you had with Sam _,_ was just _gone._

You don’t understand – not at all – and you’ve had a week and a half to go from hurt to _pissed_ _off_.

Is Sam mad at you? Irritated that you ‘went and got yourself hurt’ on the Leviathan hunt? If that’s the damn case, you’re _not_ sorry. You _totally_ did what you were supposed to do. It’s not your fault the Levis are crazy-strong and kicked your ass into a cement wall. Bones break. It happens.

“UGH!” You yell to no one in particular, and no one answers back. Just for good measure, and to let the room know exactly how cranky you are, you yell once more, “UGH!!!” As you ignore the TV and stare up at the ceiling, you notice a rusty-black and greenish-colored water spot and grumble under your breath, “This room is so fucking bad.”

Gross smells and weird-colored water spots on the ceiling aside, there’s an ass-shaped indent in your mattress. Sure, it’s probably there from a past motel guest, but now, because of you sitting in the same spot for who-the-hell-really-knows-how-long, the ass print looks like _your_ ass. And since you’re listing off things that are gross and annoying, there’s been the same two bean burritos in the filthy mini-fridge since Sam and Dean left.

Are you going to lay one finger on them?

Fuck no. Ew.

Rolling your eyes at everything, you look back at the TV.

When you notice it’s playing an episode of _Sally Jesse_ that you’ve seen _three damn times now_ , you grumble a little bit more and shuffle down and off the bed, to shut the damn thing off – the friggin’ remote broke earlier in the week. Once you’re back sitting on the bed, you let yourself fall backward into your previous spot, next to a stack of books and your laptop.

You close your eyes, bored out of your mind, trying to ignore the near-constant itching in your cast. Everything in the motel room that’ll fit down your cast to reach what itches is too sharp on your skin that hasn’t seen the light of day in five weeks.

“UGH!” You grunt to the room again, just because you can. Thank God no one answers, because honestly, who wants to deal with a ghost when they’re in a cast? Though, something to do might be interesting.

Muttering more of your grievances under your breath, you sit up and check your phone: Thursday. 9:47PM.

Sam and Dean are _supposed_ to be back tonight. Dean promised.

 **[DeanW]: Demon. Two day’s drive. Back Thursday.**  
**[You]: Yeah right. I’ll believe it when I see it, Winchester. Bring food.  
[You]: NOT PIE!  
[DeanW]: Burritos. Beer. Got it.  
[You]: You’re an ass.  
[DeanW] You love it, Tiny Tim. See you Thursday.**

Sam hardly texted you, and not because of your lack of trying. The first text you sent him, asked if he needed help with research or anything. Sam answered back with a simple ‘no.’ Confused, but wanting _something_ from him, you asked him when he and Dean would be back – even though Dean already told you. Sam never replied.

To top it all off, Sam didn’t even sign your cast. It’s probably totally middle school of you to be cranky about this, but when you tossed him the black Sharpie and asked him to write something on your cast, Sam barely even looked at you. He just set the marker on the table, shrugged on his jacket, and said, “I’ll do it when I get back.”

He never did.

Later that day, Bobby drew some sort of protection symbol and a bottle of Borax on your cast – smart ass. When he was done, he handed the marker to Sam. In Sam’s defense, Dean called him at that minute, and everyone had to leave. But still….

Technically, Dean didn’t sign your cast either. He just wrote, ‘Zeppelin Rules!!!!!’ Yes, all _five_ exclamation marks. Then, he got you distracted with _Dr. Sexy_ and drew a big, huge friggin’ dick on your cast: balls, pubic hair – the whole damn nine.

Currently, there’s a Johnny Labinski's label duct taped over the giant cock on your cast.

Sighing, you look down at the peeling-away whiskey label and smooth it back down over a patch of Sharpie-black pubic hair.

You’re such a classy broad.

 _Knock, knock, knock!_ “Honey, I’m home,” Dean yells from the other side of the door.

“Hang on. I’m coming!” You yell back and quickly try to get up off the bed, but knock your pile of books and your laptop down to the floor with a loud thump. “God dammit,” you groan under your breath.

“Jesus! What the hell are ya doin’ in there?” Dean asks, laughing on the other side of the motel room’s door. “Don’t get up, Hop-Along; it’s just me.”

“It’s locked,” you tell him, trying to balance your weight on the curved underside of your cast, because fuck the crutches. Seriously. _Fuck. Them._ You left the metal pains in your ass in the corner of the motel room the day after Sam and Dean left. They’re still there, and they’re _going_ to stay there; you are _not_ taking them with you when the three of you leave.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talkin’ to?” Dean laughs, and you can hear him picking the lock. The door opens, and Dean stands there with a shit-eating-grin on his face and an armful of bags. “That POS lock didn’t stand a chance. You got any food in here? I’m starvin’.”

You manage to quiet an almost-growl, while picking your books and laptop up off the floor, but you still snap, “ _You_ were _supposed_ to bring _me_ food.”

“Jeez. Touchy.” Dean snickers and hands you one of his bags. “No beer or burritos. All the crap I know you like.”

“All my favorite foods? Awwww. You shouldn’t have. You’re so sweet,” you sarcastically joke, laying it on thick.

“God, don’t even say that out loud. ‘Dean Winchester’ and ‘sweet’ do _not_ belong in the same sentence.”

“Technically, I didn’t even say that.”

Dean grins and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He pokes at your cast. “So, you get your Storm Trooper boot off in a week or so, right?”

You curl your lip in disgust at the god-forsaken cast. “Bobby’s “doctor” said four to six weeks. It’s been five. It probably could come off right now.”

“I don’t know. When I broke my leg, I got a cast, and I left it on way longer than I was supposed to. Broken bones aren’t anything to mess with.”

You scoff a laugh. “You did _not_. You left your cast on for like half the time you were supposed to and cut it off with a skill-saw.”

Dean looks at you like you just accused him of turning down a free lap dance at the strip club. “I did not!”

“Riiiight.” You roll your eyes at him.

“It was a Saw-Max Dremel,” Dean clarifies with a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a _big_ difference. A skill-saw would have taken my whole damn leg off.”

“Well, do you _happen to have_ a Saw-Max Dremel?” The question is asked sarcastically, but you’re secretly hoping he has one.

“On me?” Dean chuckles. “They don’t exactly make them pocket-sized.”

“I just want this thing off. I haven’t used my crutches since you’ve been gone. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I haven’t take any pain pills in days, and D _eeeee_ an,” you whine, “It itches!”

Dean chuckles some more at your complaining and digs in one of his bags. For a split-second you think he _is_ going to have one of those Dremel thingies, but he doesn’t. He’s got a yellow pencil. “This’ll help.”

“Yes. _Please_ , give me that, so I can use it to scratch my foot and then stab you with it,” you grumble just barely loud enough for Dean to hear, but use the eraser end of the pencil to try to reach the bottom part of your foot that itches.

Dean snatches the pencil back from you, shoves it back into his bag, and starts digging around in the pockets again. “Violence isn’t _ever_ the answer.”

You flop back on the bed, sighing at his sarcasm. “You’re insane.”

Over the distinct sound of an electrical saw, you hear Dean say, “It’s _very_ possible.” Without another word – but with a HUGE grin – Dean starts to cut away your cast.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch with an actual smile as the white and heavy bane of your existence is cut to pieces. “God, I love you.”

Smirking, but not looking up from his task, Dean blows away some of the white dust in front of his face and answers, “I know.”

Once the cast is pulled away, Dean inspects your pale and skinny ankle and foot, smirking at the five week old “stubble” from your mid-calf, down. “You growin’ a national forest?”

“Shut up.” You pull the leg of your pants down. “You stop shaving for five weeks, and see how you look.”

“I’d look awesome.”

“Yeah, like an awesome version of Grizzly Adams.”

With a quiet laugh, Dean shrugs and presses down on the top of your foot. “This hurt?”

“Nope.”

He puts pressure on the sides of your heel. “This?”

“Nope.”

Dean curls his fingers under your toes and uses his thumbs to splay your metatarsals. “What about this?”

You wince and try to pull your foot away. “Jesus, Nurse Ratched! Yes, that hurts!”

Dean grumbles and re-checks everything he just checked. “Shouldn’t have taken the cast off.”

“It’s fine. Just sore from not walking on it.”

“That’s not how it works, sweetheart.” He digs in his backpack. pulls out an ace bandage, and gives it to you. “After you take a shower, wrap it in this. It’ll help.”

A minute passes after you take the bandage from Dean. Now that your cast is gone, most of your earlier crankiness is gone with it. What’s left just kind of fades away, leaving your underlying issue out in the open. You’re so confused.

What’s going on with Sam?

Why is he being like this?

Why does he try so hard to be somewhere else _all the time_?

You were right before, this is _not_ Sam, not at all, and underneath everything, you’re still hurt and just don’t understand. Of course, ideally, you’d like to ask Sam what happened, what’s going on, but he’s not here; just Dean is. To keep your mouth shut, you start to fidget with the frayed end of the bandage, but then you can’t stand it anymore and blurt, “Can I be a girl for a minute?”

He smirks. “What have you been for the last twenty minutes?”

“You’re a smart ass.”

“Yeah; I know.” Dean starts to look over your foot again, comparing it to the non-broken one. “Go ahead, be a girl," he tells you with a grin. 

Taking a deep breath, you start to unwrap the rolled bandage, thankful to have something to do with your nervous hands. “Is Sam mad at me?”

Dean’s fingers freeze on your foot. “What?”

“He’s hardly talked to me since I broke my foot. He didn’t call me once when the two of you were on hunts without me, and he’s hardly ever in the room when I’m awake. Is he mad at me?”

“_____, no. Sam’s not --”

“I saw that Leviathan come in the room. I had my machete and Borax. I _had_ an opening, so I took it. I didn’t know he was going to be Bruce Lee and kick me across the room.”

“That’s _not_ why Sa --”

“I was careful,” you insist, interrupting Dean, again. “I didn’t _mean_ to get kicked into wall and break three of damn everything, but since the night we got back to the room, it’s like Sam can’t stand to be in the same room as me.”

Dean watches you catch your breath after your bout of verbal diarrhea. “Are ya done?”

You shrug and continue to fidget with the brown bandage. “I guess. I mean, he didn’t even sign my cast. _You_ didn’t even really sign my cast. ‘Zeppelin Rules!!!!!’ and gross-looking penises do _not_ count.”

Dean smirks. “And what, you expected Sam to quote Shakespeare? And maybe draw a non-gross-looking penis?”

You scoff and throw the bandage at him. “Sam _wouldn’t_ have drawn a penis, and I didn’t expect him to quote anyone…except himself. I just thought he’d write _something_.”

Dean throws the bandage back at you, and it hits you right between the eyes. “Like, ‘Sorry I didn’t gank the monster before it tried to kick you through the wall’?”

You look up at Dean like he’s nuts. “That’s _not_ Sam’s fault. He wasn’t _anywhere_ near me.” 

“Well, _I_ know that, but Sam… He, uh --” Dean stops, not sure if he wants to spill all the crap his brother verbally diarrhea’d in the Impala. And yes, like you, Sam had _all kinds_ of verbal diarrhea. So much that _Dean_ needs a shot of Pepto.

“ _He, uh_ , what?” You press Dean when he stops talking. “He thinks it was _his_ fault?”

“Well, that’s kinda Sam’s MO, isn’t it?”

“It’s _your’s_. What? Are you pissed off _too_ because you didn’t ‘save me’?”

“Pissed? No. Irritated that I didn’t get to it before it round house’d you across the room? Yeah; maybe a little.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you frown at Dean. “You and Bobby weren’t even in the room.”

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, but Sam and I…feeling guilty about shit we have no control over, it’s how we work. I set it up so Bobby had my back, and Sam had yours. You got hurt, and Sammy…he feels… _guilty_.”

“Well, maybe if he’d have taken five damn minutes and talked to me when I wasn’t all high on the ‘fancy medicine that made the bad pain go away,’ I could’ve told him that he _shouldn’t be,_ and this _isn’t_ his fault. I just wanted him to…talk to me.”

Dean chuckles. “You miss him, or what?”

“Jesus H Christ!” You throw your hands up in the air, feeling a little bit of your earlier crankiness come back. “Yes! _Yes, Dean_ , if you _must_ _know_. I miss him, all right? I miss your big, stupid brother.”

It’s at that moment, Sam decides to walk into the motel room. “So, I’m big and stupid now?”

You sigh and hold your face in your hands. That was _not_ the first thing you wanted to say to Sam.


	3. When You're Feeling Open, I'll Still Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After five weeks of recovery, Dean took off your cast. He poked fun at the five weeks’ worth of stubble on your leg and accused you of growing a ‘national forest.’ The banter with Dean was nice, but you really wanted to know what was going on with Sam. Nervously, you asked Dean what was going on with his brother, and Dean gave you a spiel about how Sam felt guilty for what happened to you. You thought the idea was insane because Sam wasn’t anywhere near you when the Leviathan kicked you across the room. In your frustration, and because Dean ended up picking on you a little bit, you ended up calling Sam ‘big and stupid’ at the exact second he walked into the motel room.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, but Sam and I…” Dean starts, “feeling guilty about shit we have no control over, it’s how we work. I set it up so Bobby had my back, and Sam had yours. You got hurt, and Sammy…he feels… _guilty_.”

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. “Well, _maybe_ if he’d have taken _five damn minutes_ and talked to me when I wasn’t all high on the ‘fancy medicine that made the bad pain go away,’ I could’ve told him that he  _shouldn’t be,_  and this  _isn’t_  his fault. I just wanted him to…talk to me.”

Dean chuckles. “You miss him, or what?”

“Jesus H. Christ!” You throw your hands up in the air, feeling a little bit of your earlier crankiness come back. “YES!  _Yes, Dean_ , if you  _must_   _know_ , I miss him, all right? I miss your big, stupid brother.”

It’s at that moment, Sam decides to walk into the motel room. “So, I’m big and stupid now?”

You sigh and hold your face in your hands. That was  _not_ the first thing you wanted to say to Sam.

“I thought _that_ was pretty obvious, Sammy,” Dean retorts with a grin so big both you and Sam could smack him with it, and then Dean points at your foot. “Four more days. No walking, except for to the bathroom. You want something? Ask for it. And make sure you put that ace bandage I gave you on there. I mean it; that foot is _not_ healed.”

You scowl at Dean. “I hate you.”

Dean’s big grin is back, and he flashes it toothier than ever. “I know.” After tossing the pieces of your cast into the trash, Dean pats his brother on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go down the street. Bobby’s down there waiting for me with more intel on the Leviathans. I’ll fill you two in tomorrow.” He grabs his jacket, tosses it over his arm, and leaves.

When it’s just you and Sam in the motel room, you pick at the frayed end of the rolled up ace bandage, and Sam stares down at the carpet with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Feeling bad about the ‘big and stupid’ comment about Sam – even though he _is_ big and _is_ being stupid – you softly say, “I didn’t mean the ‘big and stupid’ comment.”

“Yes, you did,” Sam answers quietly, not being sarcastic and not being cruel, but simply stating that he knows you meant what you said. He also knows he deserves it, but he keeps that part quiet, for now.

Still only standing there, Sam watches you reply to him with only a small shrug, and he looks down at the pale skin of your foot. He sees the myriad of different greens and yellows that make up the coloring of the bruise just above your toes, and he winces from a fresh rush of internal guilt. That same guilt that’s filled him to the brim for the last five weeks, multiplies into a number that even _Sam_ can’t comprehend, but he still forces himself to say _something_ , “So, uh, Dean took your cast off, but your foot’s still sore?”

 _Yeah, it’s sore. Dean just poked and prodded it with his big Nurse Ratched hands_. You cross your arms and lean back against the headboard of the bed. “I don’t know if I should be pissed off at you, or give you a hug.”

Sam looks back down at his feet. “Yeah, I probably deserve that.”

“Sam, you haven’t _talked_ to me in FIVE WEEKS!”

Toeing at a mystery stain in the gross carpet, Sam quietly says, “I… _talked_ to you….”

You huff and roll your eyes. “Telling me to eat does _not_ count as conversation. You’ve talked to the cashier-guy at the Gas ‘n Sip, when you were getting ‘ _food and coffee_ ,’ more than you’ve talked to me. And I find out, not from you, but from your _friggin’ brother_ , that it was all because you think it’s _your_ fault that a _monster_ broke my foot? How does that _even_ make sense?” Sam starts to say something, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I’m taking a shower; baths suck.”

Sam opens his mouth to tell you that you’re _not supposed_ to walk on your foot, but you’ve already hobbled your way into the bathroom. Disgusted with himself, Sam plops down on your bed and waits.

Five weeks ago, you were right: the _thing_ that you and Sam had was _nice_. It was _nice_ how he could just be with you, how he could have that gentle companionship and closeness that he hasn’t had in _so_ _long_. It was _nice_ to climb into bed with you at night and just feel you there, reach out and touch you, hold you, and not be _alone_.

Sam always wanted more from you. A tiny part of him suspected you did too, but he wasn’t willing to risk everything that the two of you had on his suspicions alone, so Sam kept things the way they were: _simple_.

It’s no secret that Sam’s history with women doesn’t have a good track record, and he kept everything simple partly because he was scared to lose everything and partly because he didn’t want to add you to his not good track record. Then, you poked at the simple-ness that Sam only ever dreamed of touching, and all the resolve he’d built up to just leave things be crumbled. He just couldn’t resist.

It felt so good to have you with him: in bed, next to him watching TV, reading lore books, sitting at the bars while Dean hit on waitresses, and when you brought up the unspoken subject of _more_ , Sam knew what the two of you had would never be simple again. And a part of him, a bigger part of himself than he expected, didn’t want it to be, so he kissed you.

The kiss was slow and soft, and had Dean not texted him, Sam likes to think the kiss would have taken a turn he’d only ever dreamed about. 

But Dean _did_ text Sam.

Dean, Bobby, Sam, and you _did_ go to that building, and that Leviathan _did_ kick you across the room.

Sam _watched_ it happen, and every horrible thing that happened to women he had ever felt anything for, came rushing back. He just didn’t know how to deal with it.

He _heard_ your bones crack.

He _saw_ the blood oozing from the gash on your forehead.

He _carried_ your unconscious body, and the instant that his past started to replay itself, the _instant_ that he realized you could have _died_ simply because he let himself feel something for you, Sam vowed to stop the _thing_ the two of you had. Sure, he did it for himself, because his biggest fear is having someone get hurt because of him, but in his mind, Sam also did it – distanced himself from you – to _save_ you.

In spite of everything, the thing that hurt Sam the worst, the thing that made him come up with excuses to leave the motel room was when he was thinking about you, thinking about how much he missed you, he’d look up at you, and you’d already be looking at him. Your eyes looked so tired, the bruises on your face looked so painful, but you still found the strength to _look_ at him and to worry about the constant look of pain on _his_ face. Sam couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the guilt or seeing you in pain, so he made up crap he ‘had to do’ to get himself out of the motel room.

Dean flat out told Sam he thought the whole thing was total bullshit, and it’s apparent that you agree with Dean. Sam doesn’t know what to think; the only thing he does know for sure is that he misses you.

“So, tell me…” Your voice cuts through Sam’s thoughts, and he looks up to see you leaning against the wall, half-heartedly towel drying your wet hair. You’re wearing one of the stretched-out undershirts he gave you months ago, standing on your good foot, right next to him, just _looking_ at him. “How does _not_ _talking_ to me, when you feel guilty for something you _didn’t even do_ , make sense?”

“_____, you should sit down and prop up your foot.” Sam picks up the ace bandage that you left on the bed and walks over to you to help you back to bed. “I’ll wrap your foot up if you want me to.”

“ _You_ should answer my question.” You poke Sam in the chest. “If you want to stop _whatever_ it was that we were doing, _fine_ , but you could at least give me an explanation.”

“That’s _not_ what I want.” Sam clearly sees the ‘ _coulda fooled me’_   look you give him, so he starts to explain, “Dean put me with you, so I could watch your back, but I didn’t….”

When he lets his words trail off, Sam looks down at his feet, but you gently lift his chin, so he’s looking at you. “Yeah. You didn’t get to me before I was kicked into a wall; I got that, which, by the way, is _so not_ your fault. Bobby and Dean didn’t get to me either. Bobby called me a couple of days ago. Dean’s talked to me every damn day, but you…. I thought… _we_ ….”

Because of everything he’s put you through: not being there for you when you needed him and shutting you out, Sam _needs_ to hear you finish your sentence. He knows he probably doesn’t deserve it, but he still asks, very carefully, “You thought _what_?”

“I thought that you… _we_ were different. I thought that if something was bothering you, you’d talk to me about it. You’ve always done that, but you literally stopped doing _anything_ with me. I know you were busy. I don’t mean that, but when you _were_ here…you weren’t, not with me. I mean, how would _you_ feel if _I_ did that to you?”

After a pained sigh, Sam answers, “Like crap.”

“Yeah; that’s _exactly_ how it made me feel. You made me feel like _I_ did something wrong, when _nobody_ did _anything_ wrong. I just got hurt. It happens. Hunters get hurt every day. It’s not anyone’s fault. And I know it was just one kiss, but Sam…I still…I _missed_ you.

Sam can’t help but smile, because even though he was a huge jerk, you _still_ missed him. “Even though I’m big and stupid?”

“You’re not stupid.” You roll your eyes up at him and grab onto his shoulder to help support your weight on your one foot and _maybe_ because he’s standing so close to you that you can’t _not_ touch him.

After stepping closer to you, Sam brushes your wet hair out of your face. “I missed you too.”

“Then why did you ignore me? I can’t figure it out. That’s _not_ you.”

You watch Sam purse his lips and let out a huge sigh through his nose. You’ve been around him enough to know that he’s choosing his words very carefully.

It takes a minute, but, finally, Sam starts to talk again, “_____, I kissed you, and the next thing I know, you’re being kicked across the room, right in front of my face. I _heard_ your foot break.”

“But that didn’t happen because you kissed me.”

“You don’t…” Sam drops his voice to a whisper, “You don’t _know_ that.”

Confused and just trying to understand, you ask, “So, you thought if you stayed away from me, stopped having _real_ conversations with me, and slept on the couch that, what? I’d never get hurt again?”

After you ask your question, you watch Sam make this face, and the second you see it, the second you see all that pain behind his eyes, you know _exactly_   why he did what he did: Sam was… _is_ worried, _petrified_ , that if he lets you in, you’ll get hurt, or _worse_. It’s this job, this life, _your_ life, _his_ life… Sam’s lost _so_ much. He’s lost just about everyone, and just like Dean said, both of them tend to pile the guilt and blame on themselves when people are hurt, regardless of whether or not it really is their fault. However, as you look up at Sam, you can tell it’s more than that; there’s something else. It’s the way he’s looking at you; there’s a fear in his eyes that you’ve _never_ seen before, and then it hits you.

Sam’s never talked about it before, but you’ve heard the stories and put together mental timelines. Just a second ago, you told Sam that you weren’t hurt simply because he kissed you, and all Sam said back to you was, ‘You don’t know that.’ It’s not that Sam blames himself for not having your back or not being quick enough to get to you – well, he does, but that’s not what _this_ is about – it’s that he legitimately blames _himself_   for what happened to you. Sam  _actually_ believes that you got hurt, _because_ of him.   

The second your body hit that wall, and Sam heard the crack of your bones, he thought you were dead, just like everyone else.

Sam got scared. He thought if he distanced himself from you, showed The Fates, or the universe, or who-the-hell-ever that he didn’t care about you, somehow you’d be safe.

With everything that’s ever happened to Sam, how can you blame him?

It hurts to watch, and he hates that it’s happening this way, but Sam can actually see it on your face as you work out the things he couldn’t find the words to say.

“You could have told me,” you whisper softly, trying not to let how much all of this really hurts come through in your voice.

Even though you’re trying hard, Sam can still hear the pain in your voice and see it on your face. “I know,” he admits, while gently rubbing his hands up and down your upper arms.

It’s painfully obvious that Sam’s hurting too, and though he chose to squirrel himself away, you’re not going to. Underneath everything, you’re Sam’s friend, and it’s clear he needs you. “Sam, talk to me. You can talk to me about anything.”

“I know I can,” Sam says so quietly, you almost don’t hear him. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps gently dragging his fingertips up and down your arms, looking at the pale spattering of green-yellow bruises on your skin.

You can see what he’s doing, see all of his guilt, so very calmly, you say, “Sam, stop.” You take his wrists in your hands and hold them still. “Look at me.” Slowly, his hazel eyes meet yours, and they look so sad. “I get that you’ve got your own stuff going on here. We can talk about that, or not, if you don’t want to, but Sam, you can’t….” You press a small kiss into his knuckles. "You can't….” _Keep me safe from everything._ “I’m a hunter. This is my _job_.”

Because Sam knows all about the job and the life and that deep internal drive to do what needs to be done, he answers a soft, “I know.”

“Whether I’m hunting with you and Dean, or by myself, or with other people, I’m _still_ going to get hurt. It’s just part of the job.”

Sam sighs. “I know that too.”

“I’ve been hurt bad on a hunt, like _need-a-hospital_ bad, four times now. Only _one_ of those times was when I was with you. I don’t know about you, but I like those odds.”

“I’d rather the percentage was lower, but they are pretty good odds,” Sam reluctantly admits.

“And I know you think what you think, and that you’ve got your ‘Winstinct,’ or whatever, but I’m pretty sure that _one_ _kiss_ didn’t change what we had _that much_. You kissed me just once, Sam. It was just a kiss.”

Not sure where you’re going with this, Sam looks at you, confused; he’s pretty sure it wasn’t _just_ a kiss.

“I don’t mean it like that,” you explain, seeing what Sam’s thinking all over his face. “It’s just….” This is delicate. This is saying it out loud. This is putting one of Sam’s _greatest_ fears into words, and you know you have to do this _so_ carefully. “You think that I got hurt because of you, because you think that the people who get close to you get hurt…or worse. Right?”

Sam wants to say hundreds of things about how he doesn’t ‘think’ people get hurt because of him, he _knows_ people get hurt because of him. He could rattle off a whole list of names, but he doesn’t. He just very slowly nods his head.

The look on Sam’s face is breaking your heart. Wanting to give him something, you let go of his wrists and reach up and hold his cheek in your hand. “Okay,” you start very softly and gently. “If I follow your logic, why would that _one kiss_ be the thing that tipped the scales and triggered me to get hurt _because of you_? It doesn’t make sense. Sam, we’ve shared a bed for _months_. You held me while I slept, ran your fingers through my hair, kissed the back of my neck, kept me warm, and spooned me practically every night. I’ve never felt more comfortable and safe sleeping next to someone, _ever_. All of those things show more of a connection between you and me than _one kiss_. If something was going to happen to me, it would have been that first night that you wrapped your arms around me. It would have been the first time you let yourself care about me as more than just a hunting partner, not after _one_ kiss.”

As soon as you open your mouth to give Sam your logic, he listens, but he’s convinced he’s going to dismiss it. Sure, dismiss it kindly, because it’s you, but dismiss it all the same. But then he starts to follow your logic, and he’s stunned. Sam might not buy it one-hundred-percent, but it makes sense. The kiss wasn’t Sam showing you how he really felt, it was that very first night he reached across the bed and pulled you to him. It was that first night you snuggled your face into his bare chest, and he slept with his face buried in your hair, his arms wrapped tightly around you.

Pulling you into his arms, Sam nuzzles his face into your hair and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Resting the side of your face against Sam’s, you sigh. “It’s okay.”

“I should have told you.”

“Yeah; you should have.”

“I just didn’t know how to phrase, ‘Hey, sorry about you getting hurt. It probably happened because I have feelings for you, but at least you’re not dead. You got lucky, there.’ ”

Fully intending on telling Sam, once again, that it wasn’t his fault, you open your mouth, but Sam presses a gentle kiss on your ear and softly repeats, “I’m sorry.”

After letting out a sad sigh, you just hold onto Sam, trying to give him the same comfort he’s giving you. However, you _need_ the angst’ing to stop, so you grin a little bit against Sam’s shoulder and ask in a quiet, yet teasing tone, “You have _fee-eelings_ for me?”

Pulling away from Sam slightly, you lean back against the wall, so you can look up at him, needing to see that rare smile that Sam seems to always save for you.

He rolls his eyes at you and gives you exactly what you need: an actual, unforced smile. “ _You’re_ the one who said you missed me.”

You laugh. “Yeah; I also missed being able to scratch the bottom of my foot, but I don’t want to kiss my foot.”

It’s Sam’s turn to tease, and there’s that smile again. “So, you wanna kiss me?”

You give him a smile back. “For about five weeks now.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, Sam kisses you, and it’s soft and slow, just like before. Still, you pull away and amend your previous statement, “Well, maybe like three weeks; I _was_ hopped up on pain pills for a little while and mad at you for a couple days too.”

“I deserved it,” Sam admits through another kiss.

“No.” You hold Sam more tightly and kiss him back. “You didn’t.”

Sam lets himself kiss you the way he wanted to five weeks ago, the way _you_ wanted him to kiss you five weeks ago. His hands travel back up to your hair, thumbs softly touching your cheeks, and he can feel the rough patch just below your eye: a healing scab. Suddenly worried that he might hurt you, Sam tries to loosen his grip on you and pull away just a little bit, but you catch on and hold him tightly. A relieved smile spreads across Sam’s lips, and he doesn’t try to move away again.

As Sam kisses you, he tastes you, and even though he got just a momentary glimpse of _this_ five weeks ago, he hasn’t forgotten it. To him, your lips are soft, your half-dried hair, silky under his fingertips, but just as he goes in to kiss and feel and taste more, he hears you softly whimper.

He pulls away from the kiss, looks at you, and then looks down at your bruised foot. “Does your foot hurt?”

“Not enough to make you stop.” You lean in for another kiss.

Sam leans away with the tiniest of smirks on his face. “You’re not supposed to put any weight on it.”

You lift up your sore foot and put all your weight on your good foot. “I’m not,” you tell Sam innocently.

With that tiny smirk widening, Sam lifts you up by your hips, presses your back into the wall, and wraps your legs around his waist. “How about this?”

You grin. “See? I’m not putting any weight on my foot. I’m not breaking Nurse Ratched’s rules.”

Sam doesn’t even add to your rip on Dean, he just starts kissing you again. Your arms wrap tighter around Sam’s neck, pulling yourself further into his kisses. Sam _loves_ the idea and presses his hips tighter against yours. However, the single movement does more than make the two of you closer together: it adds the faintest traces of pressure in _all_ the right places for both you and Sam. The two of you groan softly into each other’s kisses at the same time.

Not willing to stop what he’s doing to _actually_ say your name, Sam only murmurs a mumbled version of it through his kisses, “_____?”

Like Sam, you don’t want to stop kissing – or touching – so you simply make a, “Hmmm?” noise.

Needing to actually _look_ at you when he says what he’s about to say, Sam forces himself to pull his lips away from yours. He has to say this again, has to make sure you understand, before things go _any_ further. “I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have--”

“It’s all right," you interrupt and rest your forehead against Sam’s, gently rubbing your thumbs through the little hairs on his neck. "I get why you did it, and it’s okay. _I’m_ okay.”

After taking a beat to absorb what you’ve just told him, Sam walks the two of you over to your bed and carefully sits you down. He softly kisses you once more and kneels down on the floor in front of you. With gentle lips, he kisses the healing gash on your forehead, then the scab under your eye. Moving down, he plants a light kiss on your t-shirt covering your once-cracked ribs, then kisses all the little bruises on your arms, down to the pulse point of your wrist that was sprained. When he looks up at you, you tuck a fallen piece of hair behind his ear, and he moves down to your now-healed, sprained knee. After he lightly kisses your knee cap, he softly drags his hands down your calf, to your pale and thin-looking foot and kisses the green and yellow bruises on top of it, effectively kissing every _single_ place where you were hurt. Every single kiss is an ‘I’m sorry.’ You don’t need an apology for any of it, but know Sam needs to do this. You let him.

Keeping his touch light and soft, Sam traces over the fading bruises on your foot, gently massaging the bruise-free places with his thumbs and fingertips. When he seems to be satisfied with what he’s done, he reaches for the ace bandage and carefully wraps your foot, securing the end with a little metal clip.  

After Sam’s done, he toes off his shoes, takes off his jacket, and with very careful movements, he lays down next to you on your bed. Even though he’s apologized, and you’ve told him that it’s okay, Sam’s still got that same pained-look on his face, almost like he’s unsure that you _really do_ want him next to you.

Of course, you do, and you lay your head on that familiar place on his shoulder, snuggling in next to Sam.

It’s quiet for the longest time. Just you and Sam, facing each other, looking at each other, finding that familiar closeness that the two of you once had. Sam’s arm that’s wrapped around your back holds you close, and he rubs his thumb up and down the outside of your arm, while his other hand touches your hair and traces the curve of your jaw and bottom lip.

Not even aware that it’s happening, both you and Sam are pulling each other closer, until finally his nose brushes against yours.

“I missed this,” you whisper, softly nosing the side Sam’s face.

Sam sighs. “I shouldn’t have, but I tried _not_ to miss this.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

You open your mouth to tell Sam that even in your pain pill-haze, you still thought about him, wondered where he was, why he wasn’t with you, and that you missed him, but you know it’ll just make him feel even guiltier than he already does. Instead, you choose to close the tiny gap between his mouth and yours and kiss him.

“It’s okay,” you whisper against Sam’s lips, repeating it over and over again. “I’m okay.”

Sam only nods his head and keeps kissing you, gently rolling his tongue with yours and holding you tightly to him. He remembers the last time he touched you, though he’s sure you don’t: you were in and out of consciousness after Bobby and his hunter/doctor pal left.

You don’t remember it very clearly, but Sam _never_ left your side for the first six days after you were hurt.

He carefully wiped all the blood from your face, helped you take your pain pills when you were supposed to, so you wouldn’t be in any more pain than what couldn’t be avoided, and he even brought you to the bathroom when you needed it.

Those first six days, Sam stayed in bed next to you, just watching you sleep and keeping your icy feet and hands warm. However, on the sixth night, somewhere around 4AM, Sam closed his eyes for maybe two seconds, and he did that twitch-thing that people sometimes do when they fall asleep. He just _barely_ bumped his leg into your cast, and you made this horrible-pained noise and started to cry. Sam managed to comfort you, calm you down, and get you back to sleep, but that was when he really realized everything.

Sam was convinced that you were bruised and broken _because of him_. He was convinced that everything that had happened to you was _his_ fault, was convinced that _everyone_ around him ends up dead, so once you fell back to sleep, Sam got up from the bed and slept on the couch.

Dean took care of you after that, and Sam made himself scarce. He wanted you safe, and he was convinced that with him, you were anything but.

What changed his mind? Sam still doesn’t know if his mind really _is_ changed. What he does know is that, you’re right: you’re a hunter. Hunters get hurt all the time. It’s just how the job works, and Sam knows he can’t protect you from that. He’ll do everything he can to keep you safe and watch your back, but he knows he can’t protect you from the job – _your_ job.

As the things you said to him sink into his mind, the logical side of Sam has to consider your theory. There’s been months’ worth of hunts that you’ve come back from injury-free. Throughout those months, Sam’s spent every single night possible next to you: holding you in his arms, smelling your hair, kissing your shoulders and the back of your neck, and just being with you, more comfortable and content than he’s been in a _long_ time.

Sam still doesn’t know if you’re right, or if he’s right, or what the hell the world’s got in store for him, but what he does know is that after all the pain both you and he have been through, you’re still right in front of him. Sam can _see_ you, _touch_ you, _feel_ you, and there’s a place inside him that needs that, always has.

As Sam remembers the past five weeks, his kisses you like he can kiss it away. He kisses you like if there’s enough passion behind it, if he holds you tight enough, or if pulls you far enough into his arms, he’ll make it all – every bruise, every broken bone, and every bad memory – just go away.

When Sam pulls you tightly to him, he feels you flinch when his shin bumps your foot. It’s then that he realizes he can’t kiss your pain, bruises, and broken bones away, so he slows his kisses down. As Sam does this, he can feel you trying to recreate the kisses, trying to bring back the intensity and heat, but Sam knows where _those kinds_ of kisses will lead. Like you, Sam knows what he wants, but what he wants can’t happen _right_ _now_. You’re still in pain, your body still speckled with fading bruises and sore spots, and Sam doesn’t want it to be like this. So, he gently slows your lips down, just planting light kisses that change into small brushes of his swollen lips against yours, and then finally, into tiny smiles, the both of you sharing the same air.

There’s a long time where you and Sam just look at each other. It starts off with the two of you just looking into each other’s eyes, not having a need to use words, just taking comfort in the other one simply being there. Then, you lace your fingers with Sam’s and study the tiny scars and indents on his knuckles and the edges of his fingernails. Sam does the same to you: he notices how small your fingers and hands look wrapped in his, masked in a delicacy when they could really and truly do all kinds of damage to an unsuspecting foe.

As Sam watches you look at his hands and trace the curve of his forearm, he notices that your eyes flutter closed, but you try to force them to stay open. He knows you’re still healing, and that takes a lot out of a person. Under the pretense of just wanting to hold you, Sam tucks your hands between his chest and yours, pulls you to him, so your face is resting under his chin and on his chest. He rubs his hands up and down your back until your body relaxes, and until your breathing falls even.

Sam closes his eyes too, but he doesn’t mean to sleep, he just lets himself enjoy the familiar comfort of _you_.  

-

“You didn’t sign my cast.”

Sam’s eyes flicker open. He knows it’s late, but he did _not_ mean to fall asleep. Everything was so warm and comfortable, and you smell so good that Sam thinks he must have drifted off.

“I didn’t…. _What_?” He asks, still not quite awake.

“My cast.” You smile at Sam’s sleepiness. “You didn’t sign my cast.”

Sam grins and kisses your forehead. “You don’t have a cast anymore, but I’m sorry I didn’t sign it when you did. All I could think of to write was, ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

“Would have been better than Dean’s penis.”

A confused laugh comes out of Sam’s mouth, and because he’s not quite sure he heard you correctly – because, really, _Dean’s penis?_ – he asks, “What?”

“Dean drew a penis on my cast. I covered it with a Labinski’s label.”

“I was wondering why you had that on there.”

“So, if I still had my cast on, right now, what would you write?”

“Well, I wouldn’t draw a penis.” Sam laughs, and he actually forgot how good it really feels.

“That’s what I told Dean.”

After a quick kiss, Sam gets up from the bed and digs in his bag for a Sharpie. When he finds one, he climbs under the blanket covering you.

Your eyebrows shoot up on your face as you feel him nestling himself between your legs. You laugh as your breath hitches and curiously ask, “Uhhh, Sam? Wh-what’re you doing down there?”

Sam doesn’t answer, but you feel him press a kiss into the tips of your toes sticking out from underneath the ace bandage, then feel the wet slide of the marker on your upper-calf. Once Sam’s done with _whatever_ he’s doing, you feel his warm breath blow against your leg, helping the ink dry faster. When it seems he’s satisfied, he kisses his way up and over your bare knee, to the hem of the stretched-out undershirt he gave you. For a minute that seems like it lasts years, Sam pauses with his lips pressed into the seam of the white undershirt, resting on your mid-thigh. You can see the outline of his back through the thin motel blanket, and for the minute that drags on forever, you watch the blanket rise and fall with every quick and deep breath Sam takes.

Having Sam so close, yet so far away from a place he’s _never_ been, has your breath coming in and going out just as quickly as his. Not to mention, feeling the humidity from Sam’s breath on your bare thigh, makes you _ache_. Wanting to see Sam, wanting to tell him that what he’s doing is _more_ _than_ welcomed – and wanted – you reach down to move the blanket to the side, but before you can, Sam takes his mouth away. When he comes out from under the blanket, he gives you a smirk that you’ve _never_ seen before, but somehow recognize _instantly_.

While you try catch your breath from Sam’s breath on your skin and his light kisses up your body, he carefully props your foot up on a stack of pillows, and goes back to his place next to you in bed.

Still breathing heavily, you look at Sam, confused as to why he stopped. He gives you that same smirk and slides his hand down your knee to gently rub his fingertips over what he wrote.

Still confused and not any less turned on, you look down at your leg. Written in black Sharpie, just above the top of your ace bandage, is:

 _I still owe you that drive.  
When this is gone,_   _we’ll go._

Underneath what Sam wrote is an arrow that points down to the ace bandage. Puzzled, you look back up to Sam. “You want to wait until I can take the bandage off? That’s _four_ days. How come?”

Sam shrugs, but that same smirk is back. “Just do.”


	4. What You Feel Becomes Mine As Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean got back to the motel room at about ten o’clock Thursday night. After Dean left to go to the bar down the street, you finally got a chance to call Sam out on the way he avoided you for the last five weeks. After an emotional exchange of questions, answers, and apologies, you and Sam were able find that familiar place of closeness, but then his head was between your legs. You thought a new type of _closeness_ was going to come about between the two of you, but Sam made it very clear that nothing was going to happen until you could take your ace bandage off. 
> 
> But did you know that out of all the phrases you’d ever think to use to describe Sam, “is a big, huge tease,” is probably the most accurate? 
> 
> You love it, and so does Sam. 
> 
> It’s… _fun_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a long one. I know you won’t mind. :) 
> 
> Also, to impart a bit of my special brand of nerdy-ness onto all of you, in the following chapter, you’re going to come upon the phrase, ‘kaleidoscope of butterflies.’ Like a “gaggle” of geese, or a “pod” of orcas, a “kaleidoscope” is a fancy-shmancy collective term for a group of butterflies. (They’re also called a “swarm,” “ramble,” or “flutter,” but IMO, “kaleidoscope” is prettier.) 
> 
> Anyway, enough with the Zoology lesson for today.
> 
> 'E' for Explicit finally comes in to play...kinda.
> 
> ps. I fixed the copy and paste error. I don't know how it happened. I'm usually pretty scrupulous when it comes to posting, but this one slipped past me. Or maybe it didn't... Maybe I copy and pasted twice so you could read the chapter twice... LOL JK

_I still owe you that drive.  
When this is gone, we’ll go._

Underneath what Sam wrote on your leg is an arrow that points down to the top of your ace bandage. Puzzled, you look back up at him. “You want to wait until I can take the bandage off? That’s _four_ days. How come?”

Sam shrugs, but _that_ _smirk_ that you’ve _never_ seen, but somehow recognize _instantly_ is back. “Just do.”

After a minute of looking at Sam, watching _that_ _smirk_ twitch on his lips, and not quite understanding his reasoning, you end up making this scoff-laugh sort of noise and roll your eyes at him. Sam laughs a little bit too, but doesn’t offer anything else on the subject. He just sits back against the headboard and reaches for the remote.

“It’s broken,” you tell him as you scoot up the bed to sit next to him. “Hasn’t worked in a couple of days now.”

After taking the back off of the remote, Sam pops out the batteries, fiddles with a spring, and puts the triple A’s back in. Once the back is securely clipped into the remote again, the TV instantly turns on.

You sigh and shake your head, softly laughing to yourself, because _of course_ , Sam made the remote work. Sam changes the channel to The History Channel, while wrapping his arm around you.

He smiles and kisses the top of your head when you lean into him and rest your cheek on his chest.

Sam really did miss this.

**Thursday night, a few hours later.**

Sensing a shift in the Force – _fuckin’ finally_ , in his and probably everyone’s opinion – it’s Dean’s turn to make himself scarce. He hangs out at the bar down the street and flirts with the local ladies, while hustling a few more games of pool. After he kicks ass – because _of course_ he kicks ass – he buys himself another couple of rounds, pocketing the wad of cash for his _own_ needs…and maybe, gas and stuff.

-

With a book in his lap, Sam’s already in bed when you limp out of the bathroom. It’s well after midnight, and both he and you are ready for bed, dressed in the usual pajama-type-clothes: soft flannel pants for Sam and one of Sam’s stretched-out v-neck undershirts for you.  

When you get to the side of the bed, Sam stacks a couple of pillows at the end to prop up your foot. He’s already got the blankets and sheet turned down, and he helps you get situated after you sit down.

As soon as he gently puts your ace bandage-wrapped foot up on the pillows, Sam frowns. “Your foot’s swollen.”

“I noticed,” you sigh and lean back against the headboard, watching Sam fuss with your puffy foot.

Very carefully, like he’s holding glass, Sam unwinds the long, cloth bandage from your foot and lower calf. With the tip of his fingers, he gently presses into your inflamed muscle, then asks, “How long has it been like this?”

“When we woke up earlier, it was achy, but it didn’t start to swell until after that.” Sam nods his head, but doesn’t look up at you, just keeps checking out your foot and the fading bruises. You watch Sam make this face, and it makes him look like he just drove the Impala over a litter of puppies. Leaning forward, you reach for Sam’s chin and tilt it up and away from your foot. “I’m fine,” you gently remind him.

“I know you are,” Sam answers in a tone that sounds like he’s trying to remind himself of the very same thing. “But your foot’s _really_ swollen. Maybe you should take one of your pain pills?”

“M _aaaaa_ ybe…,” you start sweetly, tucking a piece of Sam’s hair behind his ear, “you should just kiss me.”

Sam’s mind, body, and heart are so used to hiding what he’s really feeling, that for a split-second, Sam forgets. For the longest time, the idea of kissing you and telling you what you mean to him has caused days’ worth of inner turmoil for him. He’s gotten so used to that feeling and having to shove everything down inside himself, that when you tell him to kiss you, Sam’s mind just shorts, and for that split-second, he has no idea what to do.

Then, that split-second passes, and Sam remembers. He carefully leaves your bare foot on the stack of pillows and moves up the bed to sit next to you. “I can do that now…kiss you,” Sam says, softly tracing his fingers down your cheek, and then he slowly tilts up your chin up to him.

“You can,” you assure him, letting your nose just barely brush against his. “Did you forget?”

Still not kissing you, but leaning in so close to you that his lips are touching yours, Sam smirks _that smirk_ again and noses at your cheek. “Maybe just a little. Why don’t you remind me?”

It’s your turn to grin at Sam, but you do just as he asked: you press your lips into his and kiss him. Even though the two of you have done this a handful of times, and you both know how it feels to kiss each other, it’s still brand new and so exciting. Every time your lips touch Sam’s, it’s like a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies is released in your stomach, fluttering around and making you shiver with anticipation.

Just like before, Sam’s somehow pulled you into his lap without taking his mouth away from yours. With your body pressed up against his chest and his hands holding you close, Sam feels that little shiver make its way through you. Knowing what his kisses and his gentle touches do to you, does something to Sam: it turns him on in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

When your tongue licks across Sam’s lips, begging him to kiss you deeper, he hears himself groan as he does it. He kisses you, rolls his tongue with yours, and has an absent-minded thought that you must have brushed your teeth when you were in the bathroom. Sam tastes toothpaste mixed in with _you,_ and he licks and kisses as much of as he can, never getting enough, always wanting more. No matter how hard he tried over the past five weeks, Sam was never able to get your taste out of his head.

Sam holds you close. His arms are wrapped around you, hands splayed wide over the middle of your back, kissing and tasting you like he’s trying to find and memorize everything all at once. You want him to, _God_ , do you want him to, but just as you try to give it to him, you feel Sam start to slow down your kisses. His tight grip on your back loosens as his lips wane in intensity. He’s done this before, and you still don’t understand why.

“Sam,” you murmur his name through his increasingly lighter and softer kisses. “Why do you keep doing that?” Being pressed and held so tightly to Sam, you can _feel_ the _solid_ _proof_ that he wants this just as much as you do, but he keeps stopping.

“Not yet,” Sam whispers against your lips, then gently kisses you one more time. He brings his hand down to the Sharpie-black writing on your leg and gently runs his thumb over it. “Just…not yet.”

“F _iiiiii_ ne,” you sigh and smile up at Sam to let him know you’re not _totally_ cranky about his pre-determined time table, but when you look up at him, he’s grinning and licking his bottom lip. You whimper softly, wishing that he’d lick yours too. “You realize you’re making me feel like a needy whor--”

Sam cuts you off with another kiss, this one deeper and more intense than the last. His hands are in your hair, pulling your face and lips into his, and for just a minute, it’s like Sam is actually licking, kissing, and sucking the moans from your mouth and answering them with similar but deeper sounds. Then, his mouth is gone.

“You’re not,” he promises in a husky voice, then closes his eyes and sighs, resting his forehead against yours. “I want it too. _Believe_ _me_ , I do, and you’re not the only one who feels like a….” You raise an eyebrow and smirk, eagerly awaiting Sam’s choice in phrasing. He chuckles at your reaction, but never finishes his sentence. Sam just lifts you up off of his lap, pulls a little at the elastic of his pajama pants, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

As you watch Sam get up off the bed and walk toward the bathroom, you keep your eyes on his and off of what you _know_ is there – you _felt_ it. You swallow the chuckle that threatens to spill from your throat, but you can’t hide the smirk that forms on your lips. Sam sees, and sharing your smirk, he shakes his head and closes the bathroom door behind himself.

You fall backward on the bed and groan miserably, but you can’t help that same smirk that still stretches your lips. Your cheeks actually ache from all the grins, smirks, and smiles, but you know that isn’t going to stop them from coming back.

Way quicker than you anticipated, Sam’s out of the bathroom, and he’s unwrapping a fresh ace bandage from the plastic. He sits down next to your foot, and offers you your bottle of pain pills. 

“Will you please take one?” Sam traces the poofy curve of your foot. “It’s _really_ swollen.”  

You can’t help but smirk at Sam and his choice of words, considering that thick line of solid and _swollen proof_ that was pressed into your thigh just a few minutes ago. It’s his fault, really: burying himself under the blanket and between your legs, then kissing you like he wants to devour you, and those sounds he made….

You let the irony of what Sam just said go, but he still knows what you’re thinking. He laughs and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything about it. “If you take one, the swell --,” he stops, chooses another word, “the _inflammation_ will go away. It’ll help.”

“I don’t need one of those things.” You frown at the pill bottle. “They make me sleepy. I’ll just take some ibuprofen, prop up my foot, and stay off of it like your stupid brother said.”

“Okay, fine,” Sam sighs dramatically. “The ibuprofen will probably help, but if you took one of these…” He leans forward and rattles the pills around in the bottle in front of your face. “the _inflammation_ will go away faster.” Sam kisses you. “ _Which_ _means_ your foot heals faster.” He kisses you again, tracing the curve of your bottom lip with his tongue. “ _Which_ _means_ …” Sam nibbles on your lip, just a little bit, and you moan. He grins. “ _Which means_ you can take the bandage off faster.”

With Sam so close to your face: you can feel his breath on your skin, see the twinkle in his eyes, and see _that_ _smirk_ on his face. He’s teasing you. Sam Winchester is _teasing_ you. The guy with the puppy dog eyes and the huge, warm bear hugs, the guy who nerds-out when _The Crusades: Crescent & The Cross, Parts 1 and 2_ play on The History Channel, is _teasing_ you.

Sam Winchester is _teasing_ you!

And you fucking love it.

“I’m seeing through your plan, here, Sam.”

“It was my plan for you to see through my plan,” Sam teases and then moves down on the bed to your feet and offers you the pill bottle. “So, will you take one?”

You bring your finger up to your lips and tap the center, silently telling Sam he has to kiss you first.

He playfully huffs, but he pushes himself up on his knees and reaches back up to kiss you. It’s ridiculously chaste, and when he’s done, he starts to move away from you with _that_ _smirk_ on his face again.

See, Sam Winchester might be quick. He might have impressed you every single time you’ve been out in the field, watching him as he moved with a speed you’ve _never_ been able to comprehend, but you’re quick too. Just as he tries to pull away, you take his face in your hands and watch _that_ _smirk_ change into curiosity.

“You’re teasing me.”

Sam grins. “Maybe a little.”

You try to steal a kiss from Sam, but he moves away just in time. “Why?”

“I have my reasons, but it’s kinda… _fun._ ”

“ _Fun_?”

“Yeah.” Sam keeps grinning and licks his bottom lip, then _slowly_ drags it through his teeth.

“Oh, I see,” you say innocently with eyes and a pout to match. “You wanna play like that?” Your innocent expression and look goes away, and a wide smile takes its place. “I can play like that too.”

Sam chuckles. “I kinda caught on to that, but there’s still these.” He shakes your bottle of pain pills to remind you. “You take one of these for me, and I’ll let you kiss me the way I’ve been kissing you. Then, we’re done.”

“Oh… You’ll _let_ me kiss you, and _then_ we’re done.”

“That’s what I said.” Sam watches your eyes gaze down his neck, his bare chest, and he sees another smile twitch on your lips when your eyes roam further down. With his pointer finger, Sam lifts up your chin and looks you in the eyes. “Let’s just keep it up top.”

Part of you – okay, _all_ of you – wants to dive in kiss Sam _exactly_ the way he kissed you. Lick open his lips, taste his tongue, suck out those gravelly sounds that you never knew you could listen to _for_ _hours_ , but you don’t. You get yourself as close as possible to Sam and push yourself up on one knee. It’s an awkward position, half-kneeling and half-stretching out your one leg, but Sam _generously_ holds you by your waist, so you don’t fall over.

Hardly even touching Sam, you let your fingertips ghost over his lips and down the light scruff on his chin. Sam’s breath catches in his throat when the pad of your pointer finger just barely catches in the rough stubble on his neck, and his hands tighten on your waist.

Still barely touching his skin, your hands roam down Sam’s bare shoulders, delicately sliding your fingertips along the deep grooves of his delts, biceps, and triceps, then graze all the way across his chest. A sharp intake of breath from Sam startles you when you just barely touch in the vicinity of his nipples. You manage to swallow a groan, while Sam does not, and you bring both your hands up to the back of Sam’s neck, threading your fingers in his hair.

Leaning back a little bit, you decide to just _look_ at Sam for a minute longer. You look at the cut of his muscles that you’ve always known were there, but always tried not to look at. Following the trail of dark hairs that disappear behind a waistband and plaid, your eyes stray from ‘up top’ and just barely linger on the puckering of Sam’s flannel pants. After a longing-filled and heavy breath, you bring your eyes back up to look at everything all over again.

When your eyes find the patch of skin just above one of Sam’s nipples that made him pull in that sharp breath before, you consider planting a light and soft kiss right there. You wouldn’t even have to use tongue to make Sam make that very same sound again; just a brush of your lips, comparable to the feather-light touches of your fingertips.

But then, your eyes betray you. They keep wandering up Sam’s body, looking at the hollow of his neck and watching how it moves when he swallows and breathes, the skin coated with the lightest sheen of sweat. You could kiss that too, but you don’t.

Just a few inches higher is Sam’s mouth, and his bottom lip is dark, shiny, and a little puffy, like he’s been worrying it between his teeth, anxiously, _impatiently_ waiting for your lips, but you were busy just _looking_. You’re done looking now, and without saying anything, you press your lips into Sam’s.

You mean to do it just once. You mean to just take a taste, but Sam does this thing where it _seems_ like he’s just kissing you back. He keeps his lips soft, uses the perfect amount of tongue, but then before you know it, you’re sucked right in. Once again, Sam’s back to licking those tiny little moans out of your mouth, replacing them with his own gritty sounds, and then his mouth is gone.

This was _not_ your plan.   

“Jesus,” you groan, letting your chin fall down to your chest, smelling Sam there, smelling Sam _everywhere_. Wasn’t it just a few short hours ago that you were internally bitching about the noxious odor of the motel room? Not anymore.

“My plan backfired a little bit, huh?” Sam asks, working to catch his breath just like you.

“Yeah,” you agree, feeling your lips burn. “Just a little bit.”

Sam hands you one of your pain pills and a bottle of water that he got from…you don’t even know anymore. “Truce?”

You look up at Sam, and you can tell from the look on his face that he’s being honest about the truce. However, it’s still obvious that he wants… _the same things as you_ , and just for just a second, you almost ask ‘Why do you even want the truce?’ Then, you remember that you asked Sam why he stopped before. His answer was, ‘Not yet.’ You know for a fact that if the tables were turned, and _you_ had asked for the same things, Sam would _never_ question your request, so you don’t question Sam’s.

You take the pain pill from Sam, swallow it with a few more gulps of water than necessary, and answer, “Truce.”

“There.” Sam pushes himself back down the bed, covers up his lap with the sheet and blanket, and starts to wrap up your foot with the new ace bandage. “Was that so hard?”

“I thought so,” you breathe softly and lean back on Sam’s stack of pillows, not daring to address the irony of his question, but ask, “What about you?”

“Definitely,” Sam answers in a gravelly voice and doesn’t look up from wrapping the bandage around your foot. He takes his sweet time – probably a good 10 minutes – figure-eight’ing the brown, elastic cotton perfectly around your foot and ankle, while taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. When Sam’s done, he secures the end with the shiny metal clip, puts your foot back up on the pillow, and rubs your toes. “Your feet are cold.”  

“My feet are _always_ cold,” you answer around a yawn; your pain pill is starting to kick in.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Moving carefully, so he doesn’t bump your foot, Sam climbs up the bed, turns off the light, and lays down behind you. After he covers both himself and you with the blankets, he feels your slide your good foot between his ankles, and it’s freezing, like always.

Sam knows it’ll be just a minute before you fall to sleep. He may have kept his distance over the last five weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t keep an eye on you. The little couch is only just a few feet away, far enough in the corner to keep his distance, but close enough to still watch over you.

Sam waits that minute, and just like he thought, you fall asleep. He smiles into your hair and closes his eyes. He’s actually tired. It’s been almost five weeks since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep.

-

**Friday. AKA: Ace Bandage Day 1 of 4.**

You wake up to Sam kissing you; just light little pecks pressed into your lips and over the lids of your closed eyes.

“Wake up,” Sam whispers, bringing those same soft kisses to your cheeks.

He pulls a sleepy smile out of you, then kisses it as you murmur, “M’awake.”

“Just wanted to let you know I’m gonna go get some breakfast and coffee, but I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Mmmm hmmm,” you teasingly groan. “I’ve heard _that_ before.”

Sam kisses his way across your cheek until his lips brush against your ear. “I’m sorry. That won’t happen again,” he promises, and though you’re not looking at him, you can still hear the guilt in his voice.

Immediately, you sit up on the bed and hold Sam’s face in your hands. “I already told you, it’s okay. I get why you did what you did, and it’s okay. I promise.”

Sighing, Sam closes his eyes and leans his face into the palm of your hand. “Kiss me.”

“Nuh uh.”

Sam’s eyes pop open, and he almost looks a bit worried. “Why not?”

You smile at him. “Because I need to brush my teeth. You _just_ woke me up.”

Smiling too, Sam looks at you like you’re a little bit crazy. “I don’t care about that.”

“Well, _I_ do. Let me get up. I’ll go brush my teeth, and then you can kiss me all you want.”

“Dean’s in the shower.”

“Then, I don’t know what to tell you.”

With the tiniest of glimmers in his eyes, Sam uses the tip of his pointer finger to tap his cheek. “Kiss me.”

Smirking, you ask, “We’re back to that again, huh?”

Sam doesn’t answer, he just taps his cheek again.

“Fiiiine.”

Even though kissing someone on the cheek is something that every grandma in the world loves to do, you’re determined to make kissing Sam on the cheek as un-grandma-like as possible.

You slide up close to him, gently run your hands through his soft brown hair and let your fingertips slowly trace down his sideburns. Then, you nose at his cheek, letting his couple-day-old-scruff scratch at your soft skin before you press your lips next to where Sam’s right dimple would be if he were smiling.

Just like if you were kissing his mouth, you breathe out a quiet and contented hum as you kiss his cheek. Your thumb drags over the swell of Sam’s bottom lip, and as you kiss his cheek one more time, he kisses the pad of your thumb.

It’s just a simple gesture, but you’re both back to breathing heavily by the time you’re done. Still, you press your cheek into Sam’s and whisper in his ear, “Is that what you were looking for?”

Sam makes this low sound in his throat. “Not even close.” So distracted by the low noise Sam made, you don’t even notice that he’s worked his hand under the blankets and sheets, until his fingers lightly trace your ace bandage. “How many more days until _I_ can take this off?”

You grin at his choice of words. “Today’s day one of four, according to Nurse Ratched, but I’m not so sure his qualifications are legit. You might want to check for yourself.”

Sam grins too. “I might have to.”

“My qualifications are _just fine_ ,” Dean grumbles as he walks out of the bathroom, smoothing his wet hair down with his hands, then he looks at the little kitchenette table in the corner. “Sammy, you didn’t even get coffee yet? What the hell have you been doin’?” Dean looks at you and Sam, then shakes his head. “Never mind; don’t answer that.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Sam proclaims while rolling his eyes at his brother. Then, he looks back at you. “I’ll be _right back_.”

Before you can say a word, he kisses your forehead and stands up. You watch him walk toward the door, and both you and Sam ignore Dean’s massive eye roll when Sam stops to grin at you before he leaves.

As soon as the door closes behind him, you get up from bed, hobble to the bathroom, brush your teeth, shower, and get dressed.

Seventeen minutes later, Sam’s back with three coffees and a bag full of breakfast. He sits with you all day and watches The History Channel.

Your feet don’t get cold once.

**Saturday. AKA: Ace Bandage Day 2 of 4.**

Dean goes to get breakfast, leaving you and Sam alone for about twenty minutes. After carrying you to the bathroom, Sam waits for you to brush your teeth, and once you’re done, his mouth doesn’t leave yours until Dean comes back.

-

Suppertime comes around, and Dean’s on the phone with Bobby, so Sam decides to get food. He kisses you before he leaves, and five minutes after Sam’s gone, Dean’s off the phone.

Picking at the bandage wrapped around your foot, you whine at Dean, “When can I take this stupid thing off my foot?”

Nose deep in a newspaper, Dean doesn’t look up. “I said four days. It’s been two. Suck it up, Hop Along.”

You roll your eyes at his nick-name for you and mumble under your breath, “I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ll take it off if I want to.”

Chuckling, Dean tosses the remote at you. “Watch TV. Get better. _Dr. Sexy_ ’s on channel forty-five; I’m sure they’ll have somethin’ to say about the recoup time you need after being bashed against a cement wall.”

You groan and click on the TV, but defiantly ignore channel forty-five.

**Saturday Night.**

Dean’s pulling on his boots and lacing them up, getting ready to go down the street to the bar, but before he leaves, he asks you, “So, you’ve been in this room for how long now? A week or so?”

“Twelve days,” you grumble.

Dean smirks at your oh-so-subtle crankiness. “Well, I was thinking, if you want to get out of this craphole-room for a couple a’hours, Sammy could plop your ass on a bar stool, and you could watch us play a game of pool or somethin’. Have a drink. Well, probably a Shirley Temple or a wine cooler, since you’re still takin’ those horse tranqs.”

Dean’s choice in phrasing is really less than desirable, because the last thing you want to do is have your ass 'plopped' down on a bar stool until last call, but getting out of the motel room is something you could totally get on board with. When you think about it for a second, Sam catches the corner of your eye: he’s leaning up against the wall by the bathroom, brushing his teeth. You raise your eye brows: _You wanna go?_

Sam nods his head and shrugs: _I’ll go if you want to go._

Quickly, you weigh your options: The History Channel and more of last night’s _activities_ alone with Sam, or a seedy and probably cramped bar on a Saturday night?

Well, there’s your answer.

“Nah,” you answer Dean, “I’m just going to stay here. Thanks though.”

Dean snorts and shrugs on his jacket. “You and Sammy got a hot date with The History Channel?”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother and goes back into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth.

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. “Something like that.”

Dean shakes his head and walks out the door.

After Sam comes out of the bathroom, he sits down next to you, wraps his arm around you and kisses the side of your head. “How come you didn’t want to go?”

You reach over, grab the remote, and turn on the TV, trying to keep a completely straight face. “Because I have a hot date with you and The History Channel.”

Sam takes the remote out of your hand, shuts off the TV, tosses the remote onto Dean’s bed, and kisses you.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam’s shirt is off, and there’s a red-purple bruise that resembles the shape and size of Sam’s mouth, just under the ribbed collar of your tee shirt. _Everything_ gets a little hot and sweaty, starts to ache and throb in all the right ways, and then Sam takes his mouth away… _again_.

He’s is such a tease.

You secretly love it, and Sam knows it.

**Sunday. AKA: Ace Bandage Day 3 of 4.**

“Wake up,” Sam whispers in your ear, dragging the lobe through his teeth.

“Case?” You open one eye and see that it’s totally dark in the motel room.

“No.”

“Then, nuh uh,” you grumble, “too early.”

Sam chuckles. “It’s only five.”

“In the morn-- ?!” You almost shriek, but Sam covers your mouth with his hand.

“Shhhh.” He laughs softly, then whispers, “Dean’s still asleep.”

“Like _I_ should be. Like _you_ should be. Like _normal_ people at _five_ _in_ _the_ _morning_ should be.”  

“Just wanted to tell you I’m getting up to go for a run.”

“It’s Sunday, Sam. The Sabbath. The day of _rest_.” You wrap your arms around Sam’s neck and hook a leg around his calf, trying to keep him in bed. “Stay in bed with me,” you whine quietly.

“Come with me.”

“Oh, yeah,” you grumble, “I’ll be friggin’ Flo Jo out there, only I’ll have my magical ace bandage that gives me super speed.”

Sam chuckles and kisses your cheek softly. “Grouchy.”

“ _Five_ in the morning,” you remind him, “and I don’t smell coffee.”

“Then, let’s go get breakfast _and_ coffee. I’ll carry you; no Flo Jo impressions needed.”

You sigh. “I need pants.”

“Then _you_ need to let go of me.”

You do, and when Sam gets up to grab your bag, you get up off the bed and go into the bathroom. You _need_ to brush your teeth. When you come out, the low-wattage light bulb in the bathroom gives you just enough light to be able to make out Sam’s shape sitting at the end of the bed with your bag in his hands.

“You do know that I told you I don’t care about the morning breath thing,” he whispers when you walk up to him

“You do know that I told you _I do care_ ,” you softly sass back with a smile even though he can’t really see it in the dark.

Reaching into your bag, you push aside a couple pairs of leggings and pull out a pair of jeans that you haven’t worn in five weeks because the cuffs wouldn’t fit over the cast, and you were _not_ going to cut them. You also pull out a bra and a couple shirts, then turn to go back into the bathroom, but Sam sets down your bag and gently rests his hands on your hips, as if to silently say: _stay._

Quickly, you look over in the direction of Dean’s bed, and you can hardly make out where his bed is, let alone _see_ him. It’s insane how the possibility of getting caught – and getting _weeks’_ worth of shit from Dean – makes _this_ that much more appealing. It shouldn’t, but it does.

_Bathroom?_

_Stay?_

_Bathroom?_

As if Sam can sense your mental debate, his hands tighten on your hips: _stay_.

 _Fuck it_.

You toss your shirt and bra on the bed next to Sam, and start to pull on your jeans. His hands stay on your hips, and it actually comes in handy when you have to put all your weight on your sore foot and put your good foot into the leg of your jeans. Surprisingly, when you do it, your sore foot’s not sore at all, but you only have that thought for a second, because Sam silently pulls your jeans up your hips and buttons them for you.

“Thanks,” you barely whisper.

Sam makes a low and quiet, “Hmmm,” sound and slowly takes the hem of your pajama shirt in his hands. “This too?” He asks, looking up at you, even though he can barely see the outline of your face in the dark.

You breathe out the softest, “Yes,” he’s ever heard, so he slides his thumbs under the bottom of the material and slides it up, letting the palms of his hands touch your skin. Sam stops his hands when he feels your lowest ribs under his fingertips.

Taking the hint that that’s as far as Sam’s going to go, you finish and pull the over-sized tee shirt up over your head. You’re standing there in the dark, topless, and Sam knows it. Still, he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move, but you can feel his ragged breath on your bare stomach. He pulls you just a little bit closer to him, so you’re standing directly in front of him, between his thighs, and he wraps his arms around your hips, planting the softest kiss on your bare middle.

You swallow a tiny moan, and move your hands up Sam’s arms, touch his shoulders, and then travel up to his hair. Sam sighs quietly against your skin, kissing all along the waistband of your jeans and along your bottom ribs. His hair and the top of his head just barely brush the underside of your breasts, but Sam’s lips never do.

After a minute, he stops, just like you knew he would, and he lets out a heavy sigh into your skin. One of his hands leaves your back, he reaches down for something, and then you can feel his hand is in front of your face. You find his hand in the dark, and chuckle silently when you feel that it’s your bra.

Quickly, you put it on, then pull your shirts over your head as Sam hands them to you. “Ready?”

“In a minute,” Sam whispers, and it sounds so strained.

When Sam rests his face against you stomach again, you comfortingly pet the back of his head, not knowing if you’re helping or making things worse for him.

A few minutes pass, and Sam whispers, “Breakfast?”

“ _Coffee_ ,” you correct him.

Sam stands up from the bed, kisses you, and then scoops you up in his arms. He grabs the keys to the Impala off of the table and stands at the end of Dean’s bed. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean grumbles after a minute, then smacks his lips sleepily.

“_____ and I are gonna go get breakfast. You want anything?”

“What time is it?”

“Just after five.”

Dean buries his face under his pillow and gives Sam the finger.

You press your face in Sam’s neck to quiet your laugh. “Guess that answers that question.”

“Guess so,” Sam whispers back.

“Pie,” Dean mutters just as Sam closes the motel room door.

-

Sam puts you in the passenger side of the Impala, kisses you before he closes the door, then jogs around the front to the driver’s side.

Five minutes later, he parks in front of the diner. You’re half-asleep against Sam’s shoulder.

“The usual?” Sam asks, kissing you awake again.

Without opening your eyes, you murmur, “With orange juice.”

“And coffee?”

“Tons.”

“Kiss me.”

“Coffee first.” You bury your face in Sam’s shoulder to hide your wide smile.

“You’re teasing me,” Sam whispers in your ear, teasing you even as he says it.

“Maybe just a little.”

“Why?” Sam asks, even though he knows why, he’s just playing along with the repeat of the conversation he had with you a few days ago.

“I have my reasons, but it’s kind of… _fun_.”

Sam calls your bluff and shrugs. “Okay; I’ll be right back, then.”

“NOOO!” You laugh and pull Sam back to you.

He smirks and kisses you.

You’re learning very quickly that the one chaste kiss that Sam gave you was an anomaly, because he hasn’t given you one similar to it since. When Sam kisses you, his hands are everywhere: in your hair, on your face, gripping your back, waist, hips. But this time is a little different, because Sam’s hands slide between your ass and the seat of the Impala.

You moan, and then, Sam stops, whispering against your lips, “You said you wanted coffee?”

You only nod your head, your actual voice sticking in your throat.

“Kay; be right back.”

Sam’s out of the car and has the door closed before you can find your voice, but shamelessly watching Sam’s ass as he walks up to the diner requires no voice. Like he knows you’re doing that very thing, just before Sam walks into the diner, he turns, looks at you, and tosses you that same _smirk_ that he’s been giving you for days now, but this time, it’s absolutely filthy.

You grin at him through the windshield, and once he’s inside the diner, you let your body slide down the Impala’s back rest until your face is smashed into the cool leather seat.

“One more day,” you whine to the Impala. She doesn’t answer back.

Less than ten minutes later, Sam’s putting the bags of breakfast in the back seat of the car and sitting down next to you. He doesn’t kiss you, but his hand roams down your knee and rubs at the place just above your ace bandage.

“Tease.”

Sam grins and takes his hand away to start the Impala and pull the shifter down into drive.

He parks in front of the motel room five minutes later.

-

After the three of you eat your breakfast, and you drink the largest cup of coffee you’ve ever seen, Sam takes a phone call from Bobby, outside.

From his usual place at the little kitchenette table, Dean sees you fussing with and frowning at the ace bandage on your foot. He puts his newspaper down, walks over to you, and sits down next to your feet on the bed.

“How’s the foot feelin’?”

“Good. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Want me to look at it?”

“Why not.” You tug the leg of your jeans up.

As soon as you do, Dean points at a black smudge of something on your leg and asks, “Is that…? Does that _say_ something?” You try to tug your jeans back down, but Dean wraps both of your hands in one of his, so he can read your leg. “ _This_ is why you’re so anxious to take this off? Where are you and Sammy goin’ on your hot date?”

“Don’t know,” you answer with a shrug. “He hasn’t told me. I just know I have to wait.” You don’t mention the mass quantities of innuendo that come with having to ‘wait,’ but Dean can read them all over your face.

He grins like a bastard and starts to unwrap your foot.

You watch as Dean’s rough and calloused hands work extra gentle as they unwind the long ace bandage from your foot. He rolls up the extra bandage as he goes, until your foot is bare, and he’s got a neat roll of brown, elastic cloth in his hand.

“Almost all the bruising is gone,” you say, knowing that’s a good thing.

“Yup. Just a couple little ones between your toes. By the way, can I just say that I can’t _wait_ to not have to touch your smelly, damn foot.”

“Hey!” You cuff Dean’s arm. “My foot does _not_ smell, thank you very much.”

“Suuure it doesn’t,” Dean answers with a twinkle in his eye, then starts to go through his whole Nurse Ratched routine, pressing his fingertips into the un-bruised skin of your foot. “This hurt?”

“Nope.”

“You lyin’?”

“No; it doesn’t hurt, I swear.”

Dean pokes and prods with his fingers on the underside of your foot. “What about this?”

“Nothing. I’m telling you, I’m all better.”

“Mmm hmm.” Just like the last time he checked your foot, Dean moves his thumbs to the top of your foot and curls his fingers under your toes, then applies a little bit of pressure. “What about this?”

It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t exactly feel good. “Nope; I’m fine.”

He scoffs. “Liar.”

“Dean, it’s fine. I’m pretty sure if I wrenched on your toes like that, it’d hurt you too.”

“Doubtful.” Dean starts to wrap your foot up again.

You watch him and sigh. “How many more days?”

He keeps winding the bandage around your foot, and when the metal clip is in place, Dean tells you, “Keep off it the rest of the day. Tonight, have Sammy check it again, and if he says you’re good, then you’re good. But when you start hunting again, you should probably wear it under your sock.”

“ _When_ I start hunting again? What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Give it another week or so, then you can get back at it.”

“Another _week_?! No way! You can’t --”

“Dean.” Sam peeks his head around the door. “Bobby wants to talk to you.”

Dean grins, happy to be out of this conversation.

You roll your eyes and look for something to throw at him.

Sam walks over to the bed and sits down next to you. “Why were you yelling at Dean?”

“’Cause he told me I can’t hunt for another week.”

“That’s probably a good idea. I mean, I know you can walk on it, but if you have to run --” You glare at Sam. “I mean, _no_ ,” Sam quickly recants and clears his throat. “Horrible idea. Dick move on Dean’s part.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

“Dean did say one other thing though.”

“Yeah?”

“He told me that I have to stay off my foot for the rest of today, and then _to-night_ ,” you stretch out the word, and Sam grins the way you’re trying not to. “If, after you check over my foot and say it’s okay, I can leave the ace bandage off.”

Sam’s eyes don’t leave yours, but his thumb rubs over your knee. “Did your foot hurt when Dean checked it out?”

“Just barely, but the bruises are almost gone.”

“Good.” Sam licks his lips, and leans in to kiss you.

“There will be _none_ of that,” Dean announces so loudly that you and Sam jump apart like a couple of teenagers. He sits down at the kitchenette table, picks his newspaper back up, and doesn’t even _try_ to hide the ‘I’m-such-an-asshole-big-brother’ grin on his face.

You spend the rest of the day sitting in the ‘V’ of Sam’s legs, leaning back against his chest, and sharing a book and some take-out with him. Sam reads over your shoulder, shares his supper with you, and late in the evening, he feels you fall asleep.

**Late Saturday Night… _technically_ Sunday Morning: **

A door closes.

You sit straight up on the bed, startled and wide awake.

“Just Dean leaving. Going to hit last call,” Sam tells you and rubs your shoulders soothingly.

Rubbing your face, you groan, “I fell asleep.”

“Yeah; about two hours ago. I was going to wake you up to check your foot, but I didn’t think that was the best idea.”

You turn your head back to sleepily smile at him. “Quick study.”

Sam mumbles, “Something like that,” as he moves out from behind you and down the bed to look over your foot.

Checking for what’s sore and what’s not, Sam goes through the same routine as Dean. Sam does _not_ have Nurse Ratched hands, but somehow, you already knew that.

“This is where it hurts, isn’t it?” Sam asks, rubbing his thumbs under your toes and his fingers over the top of your foot.

“Before? Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt now. It’s just…kinda sore, but just a little bit.”

Sam looks up at you through his eyelashes and grins. “Just a little bit.”

“I don’t foresee me doing the Iron Man tomorrow, but I can put my shoes on and walk around.”

Sam’s pretty much done checking over your foot, but he keeps rubbing your arch. “Yeah; I think so too, but Dean’s right. No hunting for at least a week.”

When you frown at Sam, he chuckles, and then starts to re-wrap your foot in the ace bandage.

“What are you doing?” You ask, shocked. “You just said --”

“I know, but I want you to leave it on just for tonight. I bumped your foot in my sleep before, and I don’t want to do it again. Just for tonight. Please?”

“Fiiine, but you have to kiss me.”

Sam quickly finishes re-wrapping your foot and after reaching up the bed to kiss you, he gets up for his bag and yours. On his way back to bed, he shuts off all the lights, except for the small lamp between the two beds.

Sam pulls out his flannel pajama pants out of his bag, takes off his shirts and jeans, then steps into his pajama pants, pulling them up over his boxer-briefs. When he’s done, he sits down next to you, digs in your bag, pulls out one of the many shirts that used to be his, and hands it to you. “If you want I could help you like I did this morning.”

“ _Help_?” You ask coquettishly, “Is that what that was?”

Sam just gives you another one of his million smirks and then shrugs.

Without saying anything, you stand up in that little space between the side of the motel bed and the wall. Sam turns, so he’s facing you, and his hands run up the outsides of your thighs, to your hips.

Just like this morning, only in reverse, Sam opens the button of your jeans, then pulls down the zipper, and eases your jeans slowly down your legs. You put your hand on his shoulder and reach down to pull the cuffs off of your feet. When they’re gone, Sam tosses your jeans on the bed behind him. Like before, he kisses around the waistband of your panties, breathing just as heavily as you and making lower versions of the same sounds you are.

Slowly, he pushes his hands up the sides of your body, taking your shirt with him. You help him finish, by pulling it up over your head and tossing it to the side with your jeans. This time, when Sam looks up at you, it’s not in the early hours of a dark motel room. The little lamp that Sam left on, in between the two motel beds, lights the room just enough for you watch his eyes take in curves he’s never seen before, and then you feel him reach behind you and unclasp your bra.

Sam’s huge hands drag the slender straps of your bra down your shoulders and arms, then he lets it fall to the floor. Immediately, he pulls you even closer to him, so you’re almost kneeling on the bed between his legs. Sam rubs his thumbs under your breasts and traces their fullness with his fingertips, while still kissing up and down your ribs and stomach.  

He’s hardly even touching you, but you’re practically out of your mind. You’re dreading the moment when Sam decides it’s time to stop, time to take his mouth away, and give you _that_ _smirk_ , and you just know that if he does, you’ll die and implode, at the same time, probably twice.

“Sam,” you moan his name. “If you’re going to stop again, you have to stop, _right_ _now_.”

“Wasn’t going to stop this time,” Sam murmurs, his breath hot on your skin. “Do you want me to?”

“No. _God, no_ , but you said….” Sam’s mouth reaches up and just kisses the pointed tip of your nipple. You moan loudly, but still manage, “Said you wanted to wait.”

After swirling his tongue around your nipple, Sam kisses back down your stomach. “I think you.” He presses a kiss into the front of your panties. “And I.” Another kiss with just hint more pressure. “Have waited long enough.” The tips of his fingers just barely slip underneath the waistband of your panties, and he starts to pull them down. “Can I?” He looks up at you. “Do you want me to?”

 _That would be a huge ‘yes_ ,’ are the exact words that your brain shrieks with joy, but your mouth can only make a small, “Please,” sound.

Slowly, Sam slides your panties down your thighs and knees. Once they’re that far, he just lets them fall to the floor. He groans, seeing you completely naked in front of him. His hands trace bare curves that he’s never touched before, lips kiss into naked skin that he’s never tasted. Wanting to be able to look at you _just like this_ , Sam gently leans you back on the wall, and moves himself to the very edge of the bed. Carefully, he takes your foot that’s wrapped in the ace bandage and hooks your knee over his shoulder.

“Jesus,” you breathe and let your head fall back on the wall, still watching as Sam leans forward and start kissing the insides of your thighs.

Once he kisses his way up, Sam licks your lower lips slowly, just tasting, learning, enjoying, and absolutely loving the sounds you’re making and how your fingers tangle in his hair. Wanting more and wanting to give you all the things that your moans are begging him for, he presses his face further between your legs, burying his mouth in your folds and finding your clit with his tongue. He groans deeply when you cry out his name, and then Sam hears something that doesn’t belong.  

“Really, Sammy? You’re makin’ her stand?” Dean chuckles, not really able to see you and Sam in the dimly lit room, but he can see enough to know _exactly_ what’s going on. “That’s not very nice of you.”

Before your brain can even comprehend that Sam’s mouth is between your legs – for real this time – and Dean’s standing _right there_ , and _maybe_ you should cover yourself up, or throw something really heavy and large at Dean, Sam’s already gotten one of his plaid shirts out of his bag and wrapped around you.

“Dean! What the hell?” Sam barks at his brother. Bitch face: _code red_.

“The bar was boring. Came back. From what I could see, the lights were off, so I was ninja-quiet, _trying_ not to wake the two of you up, and I walk in and it’s full-frontal _____ in here.”

“Then, walk back out!” Sam yells.

“Don’t bother,” you grumble at Dean, quickly grabbing your bag on the way to the bathroom.

Sam watches you walk the whole eight steps into the bathroom, wrapping his plaid shirt tightly around you and hanging on for dear life. Once the door closes behind you, he turns back to Dean. “What the fuck?” Sam yells in a hushed whisper. “You’re the one who’s been telling me _for_ _months_ to make a move. I do, and you just, what? Stand there and watch?”  

Dean’s mouth falls open a little bit. “That was _the_ first time? Like, as in…. Oh. _Oh._ I figured you guys were in here, screwin’ like bunnies, and that _this_ was the third damn time today.” Dean kinda actually feels like shit. “What do I do? Do I apologize?”

“No,” Sam growls, still trying keeping that hushed whisper. “You get the hell out!”

In the bathroom, you can hear every single word they’re saying, and you yell. “It’s fine!”

Dean sighs and having heard what you just yelled, he still says, “I’m gonna go.”

“ _Great_ plan,” Sam sarcastically grumbles at Dean, watching his brother walk out the door.

After you wash up a little bit and catch your fucking breath – because, _Jesus_ – you splash some cold water on your face and neck, and brush your teeth. Once that’s done, you pull on a pajama shirt – and bottoms, because you feel like Dean can _still_ see you naked – and go back out into the room, fully intending on going to sleep.  

Of course, when you get out there, Sam sitting on the end of the bed, waiting for you.

“So…” Sam rubs at the back of his neck and looks up at you when you stand in front of him. “My brother’s an ass.”

You can’t help but smile. “I kinda got that.”

Sam reaches forward and rests his hands on your hips. “Just so you know, that’s not really the way I was hoping _that_ would go.”

“I don’t think either of us planned on Dean being there.”

“Definitely not.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Back to the bar?” Lifting you up by your hips, Sam sets you down in his lap with your legs kneeling around his thighs. “I don’t know. Not here.”

“I told him he didn’t have to go.”

“Why’d you do that anyway?”

“The moment’s kinda over, don’t you think? You said Dean probably went back to the bar and last call is when?”

Sam looks over at the clock and groans. “Twenty minutes.”

“I realize that with how we live, most times it’s going to end up being a sock-on-the-door type situation, but for _this time_ , I don’t want to cram everything into twenty minutes and worry about Dean getting full-frontal _me_ again.”

Brushing the hair out of your face, Sam kisses you softly. “Me either.”

For a little while, you sit in Sam’s lap with your arms wrapped around his neck, and your face buried in his chest. Sam's got one arm wrapped around your waist and the other one on the middle of your back, his hand rubbing gentle circles.

When he feels your body start to relax, he knows you’re falling asleep. “C’mon,” he whispers, “Let’s go to bed.”

You wake up a little bit when Sam lays you back on the pillow and softly tells you that he’ll be right back. The sheets are cold for only a minute, then Sam’s back, he flips off the light, and climbs into bed with you. He’s gentle when he pulls you to him, keeps his kisses and his touches lighter than usual, probably because he’s trying not to tease you. You don’t care, so you cuddle into Sam more closely and rest your face in that familiar place on his shoulder.

A minute passes where Sam just lays with you and listens to your breathing. He kisses your forehead and smooths your hair with his hands, and then he hears you whisper, “Just so you know, I might have to hurt your brother tomorrow.”

Sam smiles, and the only thing he can think of to say back to that is, “I might have to help.”

 


	5. Show Me All the Things No One Else Can See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Sam finally get some alone time. 
> 
> All the smut. 
> 
> Then, he takes you on that drive he mentioned about five weeks ago.
> 
> (Final chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is ‘sascock’-sized. Enjoy.
> 
> ‘Sascock’ Copyright © 2015 ladyataralasse. All Rights Reserved.

**Early, Sunday Morning:**

In the light of the dimmest lamp in the motel room, Dean’s messing with the controls on the thermostat. It’s friggin’ cold in the room, and no matter what he does, the damn thing won’t pump out warm air. He resists the urge to hit the stupid thing, just glares at it as hard as he can, and when that doesn’t work either, he turns around to start packing his bags.

He’s quiet as he gathers up all of this things and shoves them into his bags. It’s early, and Dean still feels like a dick for walking in on you and Sam last night, so he keeps his usual ‘ _Rise ‘n shine, Sammy!’_ to himself.

In spite of Dean’s best efforts, Sam wakes up and rolls over, squinting through the lamp light to see what his brother’s doing. When Sam’s eyes finally adjust from sleep to fifteen-watt-light-bulb, he sees that Dean’s bags are in a pile. Sam starts to ask Dean where he’s going or if he found a case, but Dean cuts him off.

“Shhhh,” he whispers and points at you, asleep and curled up at Sam’s side.

Sam follows his brother’s gesture and looks at you, fast asleep, wrapped in his arm, your cold nose pressed into his bare chest. A crinkle of paper makes Sam look back at Dean, and when he does, he’s met with the noisy piece of paper in his face:

 _Bobby picked me up around 5_  
_Going to Sioux Falls_  
_No, nothing’s wrong_  
 _Meet you crazy kids there in two days_  
 _Sorry I was a cock block_  
 _Don’t break my car_  
 _-Dean_

As soon as Sam’s done reading, he hears the distinct sound of one of Bobby’s old beaters outside the motel room. Dean sets the note down on the end table, throws his bags over his shoulder, and heads toward the door. Just before he walks out, he shoves his hand in his pocket, pulls out the keys to the Impala, and tosses them to Sam.

Sam catches them along with the teasing grin that his brother gives him. He rolls his eyes, but smiles in thanks, snaps off the lamp, and sets the keys on the end table. For some odd reason, it’s cold in the motel room, so Sam pulls the blankets and sheets up over his bare shoulder and rolls back toward you, just as Dean closes the door behind himself.

When the sound of whatever make and model vehicle that Bobby is driving is far off enough in the distance, Sam starts to kiss you awake. He knows that it’s early, that he doesn’t have any coffee, but he’ll take his chances.

He starts off with little kisses on your forehead and temple, kissing down the side of your face as he slowly rolls you over onto your back. You sigh, but fall back to sleep.

Keeping the blankets up over his shoulders, very carefully – both of your foot and to not wake you up just yet – Sam perches himself between your thighs, slowly eases himself down, supporting most of his weight on his left arm and knees. Sliding his right arm between the small of your back and the mattress, he resumes his kisses, bringing them down to your jaw and neck, stealing one here and there from your mouth. When his lips skate over that starting-to-fade purple mark just under the collar of your shirt, he hears you moan, so he does it again with a little tongue, licking over the soft patch of skin, adding a light scrape of his teeth and a little suction, gently darkening the color. Just to see your reaction, Sam nibbles your skin with the smallest amount of pressure. You whimper-moan and roll your hips up against him. Sam groans at the light friction, does the exact same thing again, and then kisses his way back up to your neck and jaw.

When Sam’s lips kiss into the corner of your mouth, he feels you smile and knows you’re awake.

“Mmmm,” you moan whisper-soft and bring your hands up to touch Sam’s back. His skin is warm to the touch, just like always.

“You’re awake,” Sam murmurs in your ear, brushing his lips against it softly. “Was wondering how long that was going to take this time.”

“S’a good way to wake up,” you answer softly.

“Why are you whispering?”

“’Cause your brother’s _right there_ ….”

Sam chuckles and starts to kiss your neck again, all the way down to the collar of your shirt, and he nibbles on that one spot again. As he does this, one of his hands wanders up your tee shirt. “No, he’s not.” The pad of Sam’s thumb traces the under-curve of your breast.

“Oh,” is all you can manage, because your breath catches in your throat. Sam’s hands, his weight, and his mouth feel amazing, but certain _first-thing-in-the-morning needs_ trump your desire to stay pinned under Sam’s body. “Sam,” you sigh his name and gasp softly when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “I gotta….”

After making a low disapproving sound in the back of his throat and using his body to press you tighter to the bed, he tells you, “Don’t care about morning breath,” and nibbles his way back up your neck.

You allow him to give you just one closed-mouth kiss – because _you_ care about your morning breath – arching your back when Sam’s finger circles one of your nipples. “Sam,” you repeat breathily. Your hand weakly gestures in the direction of the bathroom, and you stammer, “J-just woke me up. I…oh _,_ _God_ …Sam, I gotta….”  

Sam chuckles into your skin when he realizes what you’re trying to tell him. He jokingly huffs and makes a show pushing himself up off of you, but eventually lets you get up. As you walk toward the bathroom, Sam turns on a lamp and watches you carefully, looking for a limp or any traces of you favoring your healing foot. He’s surprised when he doesn’t see anything.

Still, after he hears the toilet flush, Sam raises his voice a little, so you can hear him through the motel room wall and asks, “How’s your foot feeling?”

Fifteen seconds go by, and you don’t answer him. The faucet turns on in the bathroom, and Sam just assumes you didn’t hear him. He gets up from the bed, fixes the waistband of his flannel pants, and walks toward the bathroom. He knocks once, and you open the bathroom door with a toothbrush hanging out of your mouth.

Multiple people sharing a single bathroom isn’t something that either Sam or you are unfamiliar with, so you assume when Sam knocks on the door, it’s for the typical reason people knock on the bathroom door. You’re wrong. That’s _not_ the reason Sam knocked, but since the opportunity is there, he swaps places with you. He kisses you over the top of your toothbrush, closes the door behind himself, and you stand outside the bathroom, brushing your teeth with a giddy grin on your face.

A minute later, Sam opens the door back up – toothbrush hanging out of his mouth – and after you walk back inside, you and he stand side-by-side brushing your teeth. The two of you gently bump arms and sides, really just finding ways to constantly touch each other while smirking at each other’s reflections. It’s silly and cute all at the same time.

Once the minty-fresh toothpaste bubbles have been rinsed away, Sam kisses you, because he can, then lifts you up and sets you down on the countertop. “How’s your foot?” He asks again, crouching down in front of you to start pulling off the ace bandage.

You simply answer, “Good,” because you know that regardless of what you say, Sam’s going to check it out.

He does, and he takes his time unwrapping your foot, rubbing his thumbs over the wrinkle marks from where bits of the fabric bunched up while you were asleep. You want to proclaim to Sam that you’re fine, insist that your foot doesn’t hurt anymore, but you don’t. You know that Sam needs to do this. He needs to know and feel and see that you’re okay.

For four days, it’s been a big deal to him to _wait_ until the ace bandage could come off, to _wait_ until you were healed before things between the two of you go any further than they have. Sam may have checked over your foot last night and deemed it better, but today’s a new day. Sam needs to do it again, and you let him.

“Bruises are gone,” Sam tells you as he goes through his whole routine of pressing his fingertips into your ankle and arch. He looks up at you when he curls his thumbs under your toes and splays your metatarsals. “That still hurt?”

“No,” you promise with a smile, thinking that Sam’s concern is sweet, but unnecessary. “I swear, I’m good.” Sam starts to sigh and go back to fussing with your foot, but you reach forward and tip his chin toward you. “My foot’s _fine_ ,” you insist. “We’re in the room _alone_ …and there are _so_ many _other things_ I’d rather be doing that don’t concern my foot.”

A grin twitches on Sam’s lips as he carefully lets go of your foot and lets your leg hang over the edge of the bathroom counter top. He purposely moves slowly as he stands up, using both hands to spread your knees, then he slides his palms up your thighs to grab your hips and pull you tightly to him. He’s enjoyed the little game he’s played with you over the last few days, so he lightly kisses up your neck, really just brushing your skin with his lips and whispers in your ear, “‘ _So_ _many_ other things’?”

“Mmm hmm,” you answer coyly, reaching up to run your fingers up and down Sam’s back and let them skim over the top of his pajama pants. “This morning started out nice.”

“It did,” Sam agrees in a gravelly tone, then kisses you. His fingertips start to pull on the waistband of your pajama pants, and even though what you meant is clear as fucking day, in keeping up with the teasing that’s gone on in the past few days, he asks, “What _other_ _things_ would you rather be doing?”

You help Sam get your pants off, letting your panties come off with them, then you start to tug at Sam’s pajamas, shamelessly eyeing the bulge behind the button fly. “Depends on how long your brother’s going to be gone.”

Sam gives you an absolutely filthy version of _the smirk_ , presses another light kiss into your lips, and in a husky voice, he whispers, “Two days.”

There’s a few seconds that pass where you just look up at Sam, and he looks down at you. Dean’s not going to bust in on the two of you, and unless a Leviathan decides to kick down the door and try to break your other foot, there’s not much that’s going to interrupt you and Sam.

The second both you and Sam realize this, realize that after _everything_ , _this_ is actually happening, neither of you can get out of the remaining clothes quick enough. Sam’s pants and boxer-briefs are yanked down his legs, and he kicks them to side at the same time he rips your shirt up over your head. As soon as your shirt adds to the pile that Sam’s pants make on the bathroom floor, he’s got you up off of the counter top, got your legs wrapped around his waist, and has you shoved up against the nearest wall, devouring your mouth.

Sam’s kisses are completely uninhibited; he doesn’t hold anything back like he has been over the last few days. He somehow manages to make his lips forceful, but keeps his tongue soft. His mouth takes and _takes_ , alternating between sucking on your top lip and then the bottom, pulling it in between his. His mouth sets and resolutely keeps the speed and rhythm for his kisses, constantly urging you to give him more, but his tongue is the exact opposite: Sam’s tongue _gives_.

Between the kisses that your mouth can hardly keep up with, Sam’s tongue lightly traces the curve of your bottom lip, soothing you while you catch your breath. He’s gentle as he eases you back into his breathless kisses, taking the time to taste you all over again, parting your lips with soft sweeps of his tongue, and finding yours just before his mouth takes over and pulls you back into that intoxicating rhythm all over again.

All while Sam’s lips and tongue seem to have two distinct cravings, his body only seems to have just one. Pressed between his firm body and the unforgiving bathroom wall, for the first time, without some sort of flannel barrier, you can feel the heat, thickness, and size of Sam’s cock. As he kisses you, his hips rut up against your center, but with only enough pressure and force so that his length glides against your slick folds.

Without stopping, Sam murmurs, “Bed?” against your lips.

A soft moan slips from your mouth and goes into Sam’s, and you nod your head. “Yeah.”

With Sam’s long legs, it only takes him a couple steps to get to the foot of the bed. He stretches his body over the mattress, lays you down, and then climbs up the bed to follow you. On his knees, between your thighs, is a _very_ beautiful and _very_ naked Sam Winchester, and for the first time, you get a glimpse of his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. He’s gotten the opportunity to take in all the parts of your body that he’s never seen before, but you haven’t had the chance to do the same to him. You start to look.

Sam watches you lick your bottom lip as your eyes leave his and travel down his body. He wants to bite that lip, suck it back into his mouth, and keep it there, so he starts to drape himself over you, but he’s met with two hands on his chest, pushing him back up. A second later, you’re up on your knees, right in front of Sam, dragging your hands down his ribs. He leans in again to kiss you, but you press your hands firmly into him again.

“Want to see you,” you tell Sam when he gives you a slightly confused look.

A deep rumble comes from inside Sam’s chest. He lets his arms fall away from your body, hands hanging down by his kneeling knees, and he can practically _feel_ your eyes on him. Sam goes back to watching your eyes take in his body, but it doesn’t last long. Soon, your hands follow every place your eyes look, and Sam’s cock hardens almost painfully the second you touch him. His fingers twitch at his sides, but he keeps as still as possible.

When your fingertips drag over his nipples, Sam pulls in a tight breath, and his eyes close. His chest heaves as the palms of your hands drag down his sides, fingertips dipping into the grooves of his muscles, going tortuously slow, like you’re taking the time to touch every _single_ one of them.

Your touch makes Sam groan uncontrollably, but keeps his hands at his sides, fingertips still twitching at the urge to twist in your hair or grab at your hips. His eyes pop open when he feels your mouth on his skin, kissing and licking at the same tormenting speed as your fingertips, and with heavy and labored breaths, Sam watches you kiss down the center of his chest. Usually, Sam has composure; he can sit still with a patience that lasts forever, but when your teeth lightly graze over his skin, he literally has no control over his hands when they grab your waist.

Under your tongue, Sam tastes just the way he smells: it’s all sweat and skin and musk and even more sweat. You can feel him shaking, working hard to keep himself in check and let you have what you asked for. You’re surprised he’s gotten this far, because, frankly, you’re dying to push Sam backward on the bed, climb him like a goddamned tree, and lick and suck and taste every _single_ place that your mouth can reach. But you don’t, because if Sam can wait, so can you.

As your mouth travels over one of Sam’s pecs, a strangled noise comes out of his mouth, and his whole body tenses up. Quickly, you remember that Sam made the same noise the first night that he was back at the motel room, when you touched him in the vicinity of his nipple. Your own version of _the smirk_ smears across your lips, and you look up at Sam, just as you lick a wet, broad stripe over his nipple.

His pupils blow, almost completely covering the last halo of hazel left in his eyes. His hands tighten on your waist, a breathy, “ _Fuck_ ,” slips from his lips, and you know you’ve literally got seconds left until Sam pins you back down on the bed.

Still keeping Sam’s eyes, watching him draw his bottom lip up between his teeth and let it slowly drag back out again, you very softly swirl your tongue over the small point tip of his nipple and suck it into your mouth. Sam’s eyes squeeze shut, and his mouth falls open, a heavy pant slipping out. You watch all of it, and at the exact same time you drag his nipple through your teeth, you trail your fingers through the wiry hairs below Sam’s belly button and wrap your hand around his cock.

The instant you do, all of Sam’s restraint disappears. His hands leave your waist, pull your face up to his, and his mouth is back on yours. Your body is pulled so tightly to Sam’s that your hand doesn’t have a whole lot of room, but he makes all kinds of heavy sounds against your lips as your hand moves over his shaft.

“Sam,” you get his name out between kisses, suddenly needing to have full-access to his cock. “Lay back.”

He actually fucking chuckles, and it’s so low that it sounds like a growl. “No.”

Instead of Sam lying back, he picks you up by your hips and quite literally tips you backward, plopping you back on the pillows. When you realize what he’s done, you look up at him with a shocked smile on your face. He gives you _the smirk_ , and then his mouth is _everywhere_.

By the time Sam’s done kissing your mouth, your lips somehow manage to burn and feel numb at the same time.

When his lips and teeth leave your collarbone, if you could think straight, you’d be sure that red-purple mark is at least two or three times larger than it was when you first woke up.

Between your breasts and all around your nipples, there’s a burning path from Sam’s unshaven-chin-scruff, lips, and teeth. His mouth is still attached to one of your nipples – his fingers rolling the other one – both made _so_ sensitive from all the attention Sam’s given them.

Sam lets you whine and writhe beneath him for a little bit, enjoying how you’re moving your hips up against him, rubbing your wet pussy all over the underside of his cock, then he brings his mouth and hands down your middle, to your hips and thighs, and spreads your legs. He could feel how wet you were before, but as his hands push your legs open as wide as they can go, he can _see_ how wet you actually are. Slowly, Sam eases himself backward on the bed, fits his broad frame between your legs, and just like last night, he takes a lick.

Sam starts off slow at first, both to seek out and find all the places that make you cry out his name. After figuring out exactly what pattern his tongue needs to lick over your clit to make you rock up against his face, Sam makes repetitive variations of the figure and gently slides one of his fingers inside you. He knows the exact second he finds your g-spot, because you practically sob, while arching your back up off the bed. Just to see it again, Sam makes the same swipe of his finger, his cock throbbing needy against the sheets at the same time you roll your hips up against his face.

Sam wants you, _everything_ , **_everywhere_** , but he still works slowly, warming you up with a single finger, sliding it in and out, and eventually adding a second. Scissoring you open, Sam keeps his tongue soft, flicking it how he’s learned makes you keen in a way that goes straight to his cock.

When he starts to slide in a third finger, making the friction tight and the tips of his fingers constantly stroking your g-spot, your moans change. They grow more concentrated, louder, and needier, and Sam groans at the thought of making you come, seeing it, tasting it, and feeling you ride and clench around his fingers.

Just as he starts to speed up his tongue, making quicker licks and flicks over your clit, possibly craving your orgasm more than you are, you take his face in your hands and pull it up and away from your pussy, stopping him.

“Sam,” you pant his name in a breathy whine and clumsily try to pull his body up yours. Of course, Sam’s too big for you to _pull_ him anywhere, so you beg, “Please…. Up here.”

Doing exactly what you ask of him, Sam kisses his way up your stomach and between your breasts, taking a second to swipe his tongue over that mark he made on your collarbone, and moves until his body is completely covering yours.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, hungrily kissing at your lips, accenting his phrase with a swivel of his hips, and making his rigid cock rub into your slick folds. When you only gasp at the contact and work to find more of the friction, Sam reaches down to take himself in his hand, and rubs the head against your clit and down to your entrance. The both of you groan simultaneously. “This what you want?”

“Yes,” you answer, vigorously nodding your head and desperately gripping handfuls of Sam’s back. “Don’t wanna come until you’re--” A moan falls from your lips when he draws a circle around your clit with the tip of his cock. “God, Sam, _please_.”

From your fragmented request, Sam quickly figures out that you want him inside you when you come. He knows for a fact you were so close when he was going down on you, and thinking about how you actually stopped yourself from coming because you wanted, _needed_ to feel him, makes Sam ache in the best way possible.

On more time, Sam drags his cock through your folds, allowing your ample wetness to slick up his shaft. He pushes his body up a little bit, lines himself up with your opening, and as he eases his way inside of you, Sam kisses up your neck and jaw, letting his bottom lip drag up your chin before kissing your lips and fully sinking into you.

Your moans mix in with Sam’s as his lips brush against yours, nosing at your cheek and resting his forehead against yours. Both of you start off slow; Sam doesn’t even really thrust, just rubs his hips against your center, helping you adjust to his size, filling you up, stretching you, and letting Sam feel how tight you are around him.

After lacing the fingers of his right hand with your left, pressing your joined hands down into the mattress, Sam really moves for the first time. He pulls himself out of you just a little bit, then slides back inside, tilting his hips so he strokes up against your g-spot. The sounds you make for Sam urge him to keep making the same easy motions, but he adds a little bit more power behind his thrusts, snapping his hips against you. He groans when you rock your hips up to meet his, the two of you finding a rhythm that’s both slow and hard at the same time.

Eventually, Sam drops his face down to the side of your head, kissing down your neck, then back up to your ear, huskily whispering, “God, you feel _so_ _good_ , ____.”

With your free hand wrapped around Sam’s shoulder, kneading the firm flesh with your fingertips, you kiss and mouth at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, moaning out, “You too.” He groans deeply at your answer and starts to rock into you harder, faster, making you beg, “Just like that.”

A heavy breath rasps in Sam’s chest, and he looks at you, not stopping his hips. “You gonna come?”

“Mmm hmm,” you answer shakily, feeling that heat bloom low in your middle, moving your hips harder against Sam, chasing the friction.

Shifting onto his side, Sam untangles his fingers from yours and brings his hand down to your thigh. He pulls it away from his body, opening you up further to him, and increases the speed of his thrusts, pumping even harder into you. Instantly, your back arches up against Sam, pressing your chest tightly into his. He somehow manages to pull you closer to him, making the angle change, and the sounds that fall from your lips are uncontrollable.

As Sam moves with you, his face is right above yours, watching how you bite your lip, how it slips out from between your teeth when a particularly heavy groan comes out of your mouth. When your hand reaches up and pulls his lips down to yours, he drinks down all the noises you make for him, giving you some of his right back.

As Sam kisses you, he moves his tongue in time with his hips, loving how you work to do the same. Grunting out hungry, desperate sounds with every snap of his hips, Sam looks down at where the two of you are joined, just in time to watch your whole body tense up, reaching for your orgasm. Seeing this, he slides his hand away from your thigh, slips his thumb in between your folds, and makes a tight circle over your clit just once, bringing his mouth back to yours. Almost immediately, you come, crying out into his mouth, gripping onto his shoulders, and clinging to him as you ride out your orgasm, and Sam works to reach his. He knows it won’t take long.

As you come, your inner muscles clench Sam in a way that makes his head spin. The slippery friction inside of you makes the slide of his cock just perfect, and when you sob out his name, Sam loses it. When he comes, you’re squeezing him like a vice and pulsing all around him, and he arches his back as his grunts change into ragged, punched-out groans.

Coming down together, both you and Sam pant, still slowly moving with each other. Once a semblance of steady breathing is found, he takes you in his arms, rolls the two of you over, so you’re the one resting on top of him.

Sated moans, breaths, and smiles are shared around kisses, and after one last movement, Sam gently slips out of you. A random article of clothing is used to clean up, and you rest your head on Sam’s chest, listening to his heartbeat with a new sort of closeness the two of you have never shared before.

Completely content and pretty much unable to move any more than absolutely necessary, Sam drags his fingertips up and down your back, randomly letting his hands lightly roam over the curves of your hips and ass. He chuckles softly when he feels you squirm, because apparently it tickles. Of course, he stops the tickling, kisses the top of your head, and returns to rubbing your back.

After some time passes, you cross your arms over Sam’s chest, rest your chin down, and ask, “When I first met you and started hunting with you and Dean, did you ever see _this_ happening?”

Sam thinks back to the first time Bobby introduced you to he and his brother. He remembers the first night he shared a bed with you, how he didn’t sleep at all, because he was worried about ‘invading your space’ – _that_ lasted maybe a week.

“Not at first,” Sam admits, then laughs a little bit, shaking his head at the thought that pops into his mind.

“What?” You ask, seeing and recognizing the look on his face.

“I think Dean knew before either of us did.”

“Of course he did,” you answer sarcastically.

“What about you?”

“It crossed my mind every now and again, but I never knew for sure. I didn’t want to be wrong and have things get weird or wreck what we already had, so I just left it alone.”

Sam sighs – it was the same for him – but pulls you closer to him. “You remember that ‘ _message_ ’ Dean gave you to give to me, telling me to ‘stop bein’ a bitch and just do it’?”

“That was about you and me?”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles. “He told me that just about every day.”

You try to grin up at him, but a heavy yawn takes its place. “You shoulda listened to him.”

“Shoulda,” Sam agrees, kissing the top of your head. “You tired?

“Yeah; what time is it?”

Sam cranes his neck to look at the alarm clock on the end table. “Almost 7:30.”

After playfully rolling your eyes at him, you bury your face in his chest, while trying to pull the blankets up over your back, because for some damn reason it’s cold in the motel room. “You gotta stop waking me up so early.”

Sam uses his foot to nudge your cold feet between his calves and finishes covering you up with the blankets and sheets. “You’re the one who said how I woke you up was nice.”

“Woulda been nicer if you had coffee,” you tease, stretching up Sam’s body to bury your face in his neck.

Sam holds you close, petting the back of your hair. He kisses the side of your face and answers, “Next time.”

It takes literally only moments for you and Sam to fall fast asleep, both pleasantly worn-out and completely satiated.

-

Sam wakes moaning and feeling something warm and wet wrapped around his cock.

“_____,” he groans your name, followed by a few mumbled curses. Your mouth feels amazing, and _Jesus_ , when was the last time Sam woke up _like this_?

When his eyes focus, Sam can see your shape under the blanket and between his knees. His whole body jerks when he feels your mouth suck lightly on the tip, and he pulls the blanket off of you, wanting to see everything.

The second that you’re uncovered, you pull your mouth off of Sam’s cock, trading your lips and tongue for your hand, sliding slick over his shaft from your saliva.

“You’re awake. I was wondering how long it was going to take this time.” You grin up at him, reciting his exact words from early this morning.

Sam playfully rolls his eyes, then gasps when you squeeze him perfectly. “S’a good… _Oh_ , _God_ …way to wake up.”

“I figured it would be,” you purr, licking up the underside of his cock.

Wanting to watch, Sam props himself up on one elbow, bringing his other hand down to stroke your hair and face as your tongue swirls around his tip. He notices you don’t take your eyes away from his, constantly looking up at him through your eyelashes, as your swollen and reddened lips inch their way down his cock. Sam groans, feeling himself harden even further.

Twitching and pulsing in your mouth, Sam gives you hot and tangy blurts of pre-come when you lick through his slit. His thigh muscles clench and flex uncontrollably under your hands every time you move your mouth over him, but when you slowly lean forward and take as much of Sam in your mouth as you can, his lower body stills.

Breathing ragged and heavy breaths, one of Sam’s hands tightly grips your shoulder, the other tangles its fingers in your hair, not moving you one way or the other, just needing _something_ to hang on to. You groan at his desperate touches, the vibrations making an equally lusty sound come from Sam, and as you slowly pull your mouth off of him, your hands slide across his thighs to cup his balls and wrap around the base of his cock.

You’ve not taken your eyes away from Sam’s. He may have, once or twice, squeezed his eyes tightly shut or let his head fall backward for just a second, but his gaze always comes back to yours. His eyes are wild, watching your fist pump up and down his shaft, while your tongue traces the ridge of his cock or your lips lightly suck on the head.

“You’re more patient than I am,” you softly tell Sam in between running your tongue up and down his length.

“Doubtful,” Sam grunts, resisting the strong urge to pull you up his body and watch you ride him.

You give Sam a squeeze, and when his hips rock up off the bed, you grin at him. “You took the time to figure me out, but I’m not that patient. Tell me how you like it.”

What you just said, combined with how your tongue laps up a heavy drop of pre-come, makes Sam’s head fall back on the pillows. He takes a couple deep breaths, props himself back up on his elbow, and watches you continue to lick up and down his dick, moving your fist around him in alternating directions, and gently stroking his balls. “Don’t stop your hands,” Sam tells you in a lusciously wrecked voice, running his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. “Your _mouth_ …God. Please, _in_ your mouth.”

After one last lick, you slurp the first few inches of Sam into your mouth, still moving your hands like he asked.

“Slow, _slow_ ,” Sam begs desperately, feeling his whole body flush with heat when you ease down to a slick and soothing pace. “ _Fuck_. Yeah; just like that.”

You keep the same languid pace that Sam begged for, watching him watch you. You’re enjoying giving just as much as Sam’s receiving, and every time you move your mouth over him, you can feel yourself dampen. You’ve got the strong urge to take one of your hands away from him, bring it down between your legs, and rub yourself in time with the tempo of your mouth, but you don’t: seeing him strung-out under your mouth and hands is just too beautiful. Instead, you take you hand off of Sam’s balls and slide it up his abs and chest, to thumb at one of his nipples.

Sam watches your hand make its way up his body, and he braces himself, knowing what you’re planning to do. When your nimble fingers circle over the raised and _very_ sensitive skin, Sam resists the natural impulse to buck his hips up, but his fingers in your hair twist and tug. He feels you groan around him, your head following the little tug, taking your mouth off of him. Sam gently guides you back to where you were, but doesn’t force any more of himself into your mouth. Instead, he asks, his voice _so_ needy, “Can you take more like this?”

You moan and nod around his cock, so Sam eases your mouth down over him a few more inches. He keeps his fingers tight in your hair, but lets you determine how deep he gets to stay in your mouth. However, Sam’s pleasantly shocked when you take a couple more inches, and he feels himself just barely graze the back of your throat. With that same slow pace that Sam already set, you work your mouth over him, while your hand picks up the slack, pumping up and down the part of his cock that you can’t reach.

Never taking his eyes away from yours, Sam presses his hand into yours that’s playing with his nipple, urging you to continue. “Swallow around the tip,” he grits out almost darkly, but then quickly adds, “ _Please_ ,” gasping for air through his moans when you do.

Sam starts to feel everything fall into place, feels that heat inside himself start to light in all the right ways, but this isn’t how he wants it. Before, you begged Sam to be inside you when you finally came, and _that’s_ what he wants. He wants his cock to be completely engulfed in your wet heat, wants to watch you come with him, and feel you throbbing and clenching around him.

You see it on Sam’s face when what he wants changes. It’s obvious he’s searching for words in his pleasure-overloaded brain, and in the end, he just decides to give your hair another light tug to ease your mouth off of him. You follow his lead, panting while trying to catch your breath, and when Sam mutters, “Up here,” you know exactly what he wants.

His hands are quickly pulling you up his body, and you let him position you over his hips, both of you groaning when his cock rubs in your folds. Sam can feel that you’re wet, ready for him, turned on by blowing him, but he still asks, “You ready?”

“Yes. _Please_ ,” you babble out, gasping when Sam quickly lines himself up and pulls you down over him.

Once you’re fully seated, Sam’s hands encourage you to ride him at that slow and leisurely pace he set before. Once you start, his thumb slips into your folds, and he rubs those circles into your clit, knowing that they’ll quickly bring you to that edge. When he knows you’re there, he takes his thumb away, wraps his hands around your waist, giving you soothing touches when you whine at the loss.

Sam holds onto you tightly, slowly thrusting his hips upward and simultaneously easing you over him. You grab onto his forearms as his speed gradually increases, until finally Sam’s hips are pistoning up into you, pelvis grinding against your clit, all while he’s slamming your hips down into him.

It’s hard and fast, and intoxicating arousal courses through every inch of Sam’s body and yours. Shared bursts of fiery heat flicker low in both Sam and you, and he starts groaning desperately when you arch your back, resting your hands on the tops of his thighs. The change in position adds just enough friction, just enough _more_ for both you and Sam to come at the same time. Everything shatters and splinters so hard that a scream rips itself from your mouth, Sam’s sounds coming out no less animalistic.

After your body breathlessly reaches that peak, your exhausted muscles give out, but Sam’s got you in his arms, now sitting up on the bed, kissing and moaning up and down your chest and neck as he comes down.

“Jesus,” Sam groans, still breathing heavily and nipping at your skin at the same time.

You manage a worn-out but satisfied, “Yeah.”  

Sam chuckles and holds you close while the two of you catch your breath. After little bit of time passes, Sam lays you down on the bed next to him, and pulls your back to his chest, the alarm clock catching his eye. “It’s after noon. We should probably eat something.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat. “I _tried_ to do that earlier, but _someone_ got impatient.”

“I was referring to _actual_ food,” Sam tries to state plainly, but you hear _the_ _smirk_ in his voice.

“God,” you sigh. “Too tired to eat. I can’t even move my legs.”

More chuckles from Sam. “I don’t think I can move mine either.”

You bury your face in his arm. “No food.”

“Yes; you _need_ to eat.”

“Geez,” you groan playfully. “You’re _bossy_ when you’re naked.”

Sam snorts and whispers in your ear, “You have _no_ idea.” He slides his hand down your middle to lightly cup your pussy. You gasp, and your whole body goes rigid from over-stimulation. “So, when’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t fried or bought at the Gas ‘n Sip?”

Another smart quip dances on the tip of your tongue, and like Sam knows exactly what you’re thinking, he slides his middle finger in between your folds and circles your extremely-sensitive clit, making you almost shriek. When you don’t answer, Sam does it again. “OKAY!” You squeal, feeling your body twitch until Sam changes his circles over your clit to soft petting. “I’ll eat. God, I swear, I’ll eat.”

Kissing up the sweaty hairs on your neck, Sam chuckles in your ear. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” When you only moan as a response, he wonders aloud, “Can you come again?”

Sam’s soft strokes over your clit are making that heat light in your middle again, but you know the slow speed isn’t going to be enough. “Faster, _please_.”

A heavy sound comes from Sam, and he speeds up his fingers. His other hand palms one of your breasts, kneading the skin and plucking at your nipple. “Like this?” You nod and whimper as your answer, so Sam keeps going. “C’mon. Just let go,” he whispers huskily in your ear, kissing at your skin, urging you with his lips and fingers, “Come for me.”

It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, but your back arches against Sam. He holds you close, never stopping his fingers that are doing _all_ the right things, and in a surprisingly short amount of time, your body is shaking and quivering when you come again.

“Holy _shiiit_ ,” you pant, gasping for breath, twisting yourself back toward Sam.

He only kisses you with a satisfied version of _the smirk_ on his face, scoops your spent body up off the bed, and brings you into the bathroom for a shower.

The two of you shower in surprisingly decent water pressure. There’s dozens of kisses between the lather of shampoo and lots of generous rubbing among all the soapsuds, but the two of you manage to get clean just as the hot water runs out.

Sam wraps you in a towel, drapes one over your shoulders to catch the drips of your hair, and then wraps one around his waist. He carries you out into the room, sets you down on the bed Dean slept in, then digs in one of the dresser drawers for a set of sheets, and quickly changes the linens on your bed.

Just as Sam puts the clean pillow cases on the flat pillows, you shiver and look toward the oddly quiet thermostat in the wall. “It’s cold in here.” You get up in search for you bag and some warm clothes, but Sam grabs you before you get too far. “What are you _doing_?” You laugh as you speak, futilely wiggling in Sam’s arms. “Need clothes. _Cold_ in here.”

Sam playfully pushes you back on the bed, draping himself over you and burying the two of you in the clean bedding. “No clothes.”

“What?” You ask confused. “You said I _needed_ to eat.” ‘Needed’ is said beyond sarcastically, and Sam shakes his head at you, giving you his millionth rendition of _the smirk_. “If I’m going anywhere,” you tell him, “I _need_ pants.”

“No clothes,” Sam repeats, pulling your towels out from under you. You pull his away as well. “ _I’ll_ go get food,” he explains kissing down your neck, taking your wrists in his hands and pinning them into the mattress above your head. “And _you_ stay here.” His mouth latches onto that ever-growing purple mark on your collarbone. “Naked.” You moan, and Sam lightly presses his teeth into your skin. “For me.”

“Bossy,” you murmur as Sam nips at your skin.

He only chuckles and keeps doing what he’s doing, until he knows he’s successfully turned you on. He starts to pull away from you, to get dressed and go get the previously discussed food, but you wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him right where he is. Sam might be hunter and huge and ridiculously strong, but you’re a hunter too; you can make – or at least attempt to make – him stay in place. “Just have something delivered,” you beg him, rocking your body up against his. “Stay here and keep me warm; it’s _cold_. Be naked with me.”

Sam groans in mock-defeat. “Fiiine, but I still have to get up to find the phone number for some place that delivers.”

Without taking your legs from around Sam, you wiggle your wrists until he lets them go and reach over for your phone on the end table. You’ve been stuck in this motel room for _days_ , having called all the restaurants that deliver for all of your meals while Sam and Dean were gone. With a few taps on your phone’s screen, you select your favorite place and hand the phone to Sam. “It’s ringing.”

“I don’t even know what you want.”

You swivel your hips up against Sam again. “I do.”

He groans at the pressure at the same second a server answers the phone at the diner. “Hi. Um, yeah,” Sam stammers. “I need to place an order for deliv -” You teasingly move again, and Sam presses a hand into your hip to hold you still. “Could you please tell me your specials?” When the server starts to list off random lunch specials, Sam holds the phone away from his mouth and asks, “What should I order?”

“Everything.” You grin and start to roll away from Sam in an attempt quell the temptation to tease him the way he’s been teasing you for days. “I’m starving.”

Sam rolls his eyes, because less than an hour ago, you were insisting you _couldn’t_ eat. He lets you get up, but smacks your ass when you get up from the bed. He grins at you when you look back at him with a slightly surprised look on your face, then starts to place his order for food.

Leaving Sam beautifully naked on the bed, you walk – also beautifully naked – into the bathroom, in search for a brush to run through your hair and maybe some deodorant and lotion for your body. To you, it’s practically frigid in the motel room, and now that you’re not in bed, nestled warm under Sam’s always-warm body, you’re starting to get cold. Thankfully, there’s one of Sam’s plaid button-up shirts draped over the bathroom counter top. You shrug it on, reasoning with yourself that if you leave it open, you’ll still be ‘naked enough’ for Sam.

However, when you look up from rubbing lotion on your legs, Sam standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame in all of his glorious nakedness, looking you up and down. When your eyes meet his, he takes a step forward and reaches to fix your flipped-up collar. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to see you sleep in _my_ clothes every night?”

You have to laugh at that. “I only wore them because you kept giving them to me.”

“But you wore them _without_ pants.”

“Only because you’re like sleeping next to a wood stove that likes to spoon.”

It’s Sam’s turn to laugh – he knows that’s completely true – and he takes your hands in his. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

“ _I know_. Hence, the shirt.”

Sam reaches up and moves the plaid material so it’s resting on the outsides of your breasts, letting him see everything. “There.”

“Just to be clear, you like me wearing your clothes?”

“God, yes. Very sexy.”

“Well, what about a pair of socks and your flannel pajama pants?” You tease. “Would that be equally sexy?”

As his answer, Sam picks you up and carries you to the bed. His gently takes his shirt off of you, kissing every patch of naked skin, and warming your body with his.

Sam’s mouth doesn’t leave your body until the delivery-person shows up.

-

You and Sam spend the rest of the afternoon naked in bed, feeding each other from the literally dozens of styrofoam containers full of food. When the two of you have had your fill, you take turns with each other, _never_ really having your fill, just licking and tasting each other like something changed when the afternoon passed.

-

When the evening comes, Sam pulls out all the leftovers, and the two of you have a naked picnic in bed. Sam feeds you cold waffles and soggy bacon, but you lick his fingers clean, everything tasting amazing with Sam’s fingers behind them. By the time the waffles are gone and the last drop of sticky syrup is licked away, Sam’s rock hard, and you’re dripping wet.

He’s careful when he lifts you up and eases himself inside you, knowing that you’ve got to be at least a little tender after how rough things got earlier in the afternoon. Regardless, by the end, you’re both panting and moaning against each other’s lips, coming down together from powerful orgasms.

-

The rest of the evening is spent wrapped in each other’s arms and warm bedding, talking about simple things like nothing has changed. Of course, things _have_ changed, but only in the way that you and Sam hoped they would. If anything, things are a little bit easier than they were before, because neither you, nor Sam are wondering ‘ _what_ _if_?’ You both already _know_.

-

Eleven o’clock rolls around, and the TV is on The History Channel, softly playing a re-run of something neither of you are paying attention to. With you curled up in Sam’s lap, your head resting on his chest, Sam instantly knows when you’ve fallen asleep. He shuts off the TV, and clicks off the lamp, holding you awhile longer, then moves down the bed, joining you in sleep.

*//*

**Tuesday Morning, waaaay too damn early:**

“Wake up,” Sam whispers in your ear.

You don’t wake up, just whine a cranky noise at Sam and nestle yourself further under the warm covers.

“C’mon,” he murmurs soothingly, rubbing his hand gently up and down your back. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

From your warm blanket-cocoon, you sleepily ask, “Does it involve coffee?”

“Actually, yeah. I figured I couldn’t get away with that anymore, so I went and got you some.” Sam reaches for your extra-large coffee, carefully moves the blankets back from your head, and holds the cup next to your hand.

You groan longingly at the smell of fresh coffee, sit up on the bed, and take the cup from Sam. “Do I even want to know what time it is this time?”

Sam chuckles. “Probably not.”

You lean back against the headboard of the bed, enjoying a few sips of your deliciously-caffeinated-goodness, groaning softly when Sam starts to rub your feet. After you start to wake up, you ask, “You said something about surprise?”

“Yeah; we have to drive to Bobby’s today, and I thought since it’s only five or six hours away, we could take the rest of the day and go on that drive I promised you.”

Despite of the God-awful time of the morning that you _still_ aren’t aware of, you give Sam a sleepy smile when you think about the long-awaited _drive_. “Give me a minute to wake up, and I’ll get my stuff packed.”  

“Already got everything loaded up in the Impala. Just left you some clothes and your toiletry bag in the bathroom. We can go whenever you’re ready.”

You stop drinking your coffee mid-sip and look up at Sam. “The _Impala_? Dean _left_ it here?”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah; I think it was his apology for walking in on us the other night. He rode to Sioux Falls with Bobby and told us to meet him there in two days.”

He hands you the note Dean left and watches you smirk, presumably at the words ‘cock block.’ When you give it back to him, Sam takes your coffee from you, helps you up from the bed and sends you off toward the bathroom with a couple light pats on your ass, in lieu of attempting to give you a kiss before you brush your teeth. Taking a drink of your coffee, Sam watches you walk toward the bathroom, and once the door closes, he silently counts to five, then hears you laugh.

“A skirt? You’re insane.”

Sam grins and counts to three.

“So, when you said you left me clothes in here,” you say from behind the closed bathroom door, “you really just meant a skirt and top. I don’t get to wear underwear?”

Still with the grin on his face, Sam answers loud enough for you to hear, “If it helps, I’m not wearing any underwear either.” He hears you laugh, and five minutes later, you’re out of the bathroom with your toiletry bag in your hands.

“I wore this skirt once, like five months ago.” You try to pull the denim hem further down your knees, but it’s impossible. The skirt’s not exactly short, but still, it’s not very often that you actually wear skirts, outside of Fed clothes. “How did you even remember I had it?”

“You wore it to a bar, _four_ months ago,” Sam corrects you after walking up to you and wrapping his arms around your waist, smoothing the dark denim over your ass. “You played pool with me. It was… _distracting_.”

You shiver in Sam’s embrace, thinking about how he’s _always_ looked at you in the way that you’ve always _tried_ not to look at him, but always did. “I see.”  

After bending down to kiss you, Sam takes your bag from you and leads you out of the motel room to the Impala. Once you're sitting in the passenger seat, Sam closes the door behind you, walks around to the trunk to put your bag away, then gets in the driver’s side. You curl up at his side, resting your head on his shoulder, and just a minute later, you and Sam are driving down the highway.

Sam’s hand gently rubs up and down your knee, never going past the hem of your skirt. It’s just a comforting touch, soothing, and you yawn against his shoulder. “You ever going to tell me what time it is?”

Taking his hand away from your knee, Sam digs in his pocket, and hands you your phone. You turn it on and groan when you see the time: 3:37AM.

“You can sleep, if you want. We won’t be there for a while.”

“Where are we going?”

Stretching his arm around the backseat, Sam grabs a blanket and puts it in your lap. “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

You playfully sigh, knowing he’s not going to tell you anything more.

Both Sam, the blanket, and the heat coming from the Impala’s vents are warm, and it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

-

Briefly, you wake up when the rumble of the Impala quiets, and Sam shifts away from you. When he's back at your side, and the engine comes back to life, you force yourself to stay awake. He kisses the top of your head, holds you close, and you sleepily watch the highway through the windshield.

The sun comes up just as Sam parks on a gravelly driveway in what looks to be some sort of state park. He’s got a bagful of breakfast in his hand as he helps you out of the car, grabbing the blanket for you as well.

The two of you eat breakfast on the hood of the Impala, leaning back against the windshield, sharing muffins, fruit, orange juice, and more coffee. It’s quiet for the most part, just easy conversation between you and Sam, as the world around the two of you wakes up for the day.

An undetermined amount of time passes while soft and gentle kisses are exchanged, and after, Sam gathers up the trash, tosses it into a bin, and then helps you off the hood and into the car.

It’s miles of quiet highway for a while; just you and Sam. In the quiet, you understand why Sam started the day so early: he wanted to make the most of it. You make the Winchester’s usual duo a trio, and you and Sam aren’t going to get a whole lot of time like this together. Leaning against him, you reach up and press a grateful kiss into Sam’s jaw.

With a smile, he asks, “What was that for?”

“Just because,” you answer and lean further into him when he holds his arm out for you.

-

The stop for lunch is spent pretty much the same way as breakfast: just the two of you sharing food and light kisses. However, there’s a glimmer in Sam’s eyes that’s just too obvious for you to miss. He kisses you when he sees you smile, and the two of you are back on the road again.

-

The next time he stops, there’s no food involved, just that glimmer in Sam’s eyes and _the smirk_ twitching on his lips. He parks the Impala in a fairly wooded area and takes your hand when you exit the car behind him.

Sam’s strides are slow and purposeful as he leads you where ever he's taking you, and just as you start to look around to try to figure out where he’s taken you, he’s got you pushed back up against the side of the Impala.

His lips and tongue kiss you dizzy, and he only stops to ask, “You know why I wanted to wait? Why I wanted your foot to be healed before we did this?”

Breathlessly, you answer, “To drive me crazy?”

Sam chuckles as he kisses down your body and pushes your skirt up over your hips. He kneels down in the grass and eases your leg over his shoulder, baring your pussy to his mouth. “ _That_ was fun, but no.” He reaches forward and licks your slit just once, then pulls away, holding you still when you try to chase his mouth. “I wanted you to _only_ feel _this_.” With more pressure, he licks you again, barely parting your lower lips. “I didn’t want you to feel anything but _me_ the first time I touched you.”

With a heavy and wanton breath, your head falls back against the hard metal of the Impala, but Sam’s mouth continues to lick you so soft and so slow, you think you might cry. But Sam knows exactly what he’s doing; he learned all your spots, and he continues to lick each and every one of them tenderly, really letting you feel them, feel _him_.

With each gentle pass of his tongue, Sam makes the coil inside you go tighter and tighter, and just when you think you can’t handle it any longer, he buries his face in you. His tongue flicks all the right ways, his fingers rub against your g-spot _so perfectly_ that when you come, you’d swear on just about anything you black out.

When you open your eyes again, Sam’s licking his lips clean, easing your skirt back down your hips. Standing up from the ground, he kisses his way back up your body, nipping at your breasts through your shirt, then whispering in your ear, “ _That_ was how it was _supposed to go_ the first time.”

All you can give Sam is a breathless laugh.

He switches places with you, leaning back against the Impala and holds you close – your back to his chest – until he’s sure you can walk again.

-

The next time he parks the Impala, your eyes quickly scan the location, looking for anybody nearby. When you see that the place is deserted, you pull Sam toward you before he can even open the driver’s side door and kiss him.

“Lay down,” you tell him, not taking your mouth away from his.

“Bossy,” Sam teases against your mouth, kissing your grin, but does what you ask him to do.

Your hands yank his belt open, and Sam’s pull open his button and zipper, all revealing his leaking cock. Before Sam can even breathe, you’ve got your mouth on him.

You work slowly at first, just like Sam told you he liked it, but because he’s so worked up from what he did to you the last time he stopped, he silently urges you to blow him faster. You do, swallowing down as much of him as you can, sloppily working your mouth over him, keeping the suction tight and your mouth slick. At random intervals you start to swallow around him, reaching up his shirt to tweak his nipple with one hand, while the other pumps over the remainder of his length.

Sam spills in your mouth quickly, his whole body tensing up under yours, shouting through his orgasm, surprised at how quickly you pulled it out of him. More groans continue to fall from Sam’s lips as you gently clean him up and tuck him back into his pants, and once things are buckled, buttoned, and zipped back up, Sam pulls you up on top of him, catching his breath with your comforting weight on top of him.

-

Sam pulls over at random stops three more times, and each time is more breathless and hot than the last.

As the day goes on and it becomes late afternoon, you start to actually pay attention to the road signs, noticing that Sam’s _not_ driving in the direction of Bobby’s house.

Seeing the confused look on your face out of the corner of his eye, Sam grins. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to figure it out.”

You look at the long stretches of highway behind the Impala and in front of her, trying to find _something_ familiar, but there’s literally nothing, just road and fields and more road. “Where _are_ we?”

Sam only smirks and hands you a map. Curious, you quickly open it, and your eyes follow the Sharpie-black lines that Sam’s drawn in. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the direction the lines go in – or rather, swirl in random directions. Obscure locations are marked, presumably places Sam’s already stopped at or plans to stop at.

With your eyebrows knitted in confusion, you look at Sam’s watch on his wrist and then up at him. “Don’t we have to meet Bobby and Dean today?”

“I texted Dean while you were sleeping. Told him we wouldn’t be there until late,” Sam answers mischievously while running his hand up and down the inside of your thigh, just barely rubbing his fingers up against your naked center. “How many places do we have left?”

Quickly, you count up the marks left on the map, and then your breath hitches. You eagerly lick your lips before answering, “Six.”

Briefly taking his eyes away from the road, Sam’s eyes meet yours. It’s been over five weeks since Sam promised you this drive, and he’s bound and determined that you get it. He gives you a very familiar version of _the smirk_ , moves his hand further up your thigh, and pushes his foot further down on the gas, making the Impala speed down the highway toward his next planned stop.


End file.
